


Frozen stars

by Judin



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossdressing, Dubious Consent, First Time, Genderbending, M/M, Magic Revealed, Pining, Season 5 AU, made them do it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 93,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Judin/pseuds/Judin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nights in Ismere are freezing cold. Desperate to keep Arthur alive, Merlin is willing to do anything, and Ragnor, their captor, takes advantage. The cold rises like a wall between Arthur and Merlin, at the worst possible time, because the Battle of Camlann is coming. Somehow, they must find back together before it is too late, but once they do, will Merlin's other secret destroy them again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. While the stars froze above you

Night falls quickly on Ismere’s frozen valleys, but though it means an early end to their march, it brings little relief to Ragnor’s pitiful band of prisoners. It’s so cold. Freezing. And without food and proper coats, it’s a tossup whether they’ll even survive to reach the Lady Morgana’s dungeon.

Merlin has been distracted all day, plagued by his secret fears, so it is only after the cart comes to a halt, and Arthur falls down in the snow and remains there, that Merlin realises how much of a brave face the King has been putting on this far. The prisoners huddle together as best they can while the bandits build a fire. Merlin stays by Arthur’s side, but the King doesn’t even wake when a man comes to tie his feet together, and eventually the cold grows unbearable, so Merlin inches himself as close to the blazing heat of the fire as his bonds allow. He can’t feel his ears or his toes, and if he couldn’t see his own fingers curled, red and sore, over his knees, he would think they had fallen off somewhere on the road.

He continues to watch Mordred, but is distracted by the food that the bandits are so carelessly devouring.

“Is this what you want?” Ragnor dangles the loaf in front of him, but of course it is not with the intention of sharing. When it’s thrown at him, it lands out of reach by a good bit, but Merlin thinks he could get it if he can only make Arthur move. So once both Ragnor and Mordred have turned away, Merlin shuffles over to Arthur.

“Arthur?”

There’s no response. Arthur’s lips are blue, his body too still, his shoulders relaxed. All at once, Merlin is terrified.

“Arthur? Arthur!” He shakes the King until he stirs with a groan.

“Leave me alone, Merlin.”

Merlin lowers his voice, aware that he’s drawn attention to them with his shouts. “Don’t fall asleep, you won’t wake up again. Come on, Arthur.”

He startles when Ragnor speaks up right behind him. “What kind of servant doesn’t use his master’s title? I’m beginning to wonder about you two.”

Arthur’s eyes open reluctantly, his lashes full of snowflakes, and he glares tiredly up at the Scot. Merlin ignores Ragnor altogether, pulling on Arthur’s arm to bring him into a sitting position. Icy chainmail brushes his fingers, and it says something that he can feel it, despite his numb hands. The mail shirt isn’t helping Arthur keep warm at all, and the arms of the gambeson are stiff with frost.

Arthur shakes his head to throw off lethargy.

Merlin doesn’t have to think twice before he turns to Ragnor. “Please. Please let him sit by the fire, just for a little while. He’s so cold.”

Ragnor cocks his head to the side, studying them with a mocking little smile. “What do I care if the King of Camelot passes a chilly night?”

“If he dies, the Lady Morgana will have your head!”

Arthur’s hand comes to rest on Merlin’s arm. “Merlin, stop it,” he says softly.

Ragnor’s eyes light up with interest. “I see how it is.” He raises his voice. “The boy’s gotten so used to moaning his master’s name, he forgets his title in public. Been a while since you were good and had, has it boy, or did you find an opportunity in the net last night?” The men around the fire laugh, all except Mordred, whose expression remains inscrutable.

Something flutters in Merlin throat and stomach. It’s embarrassment, yes, but heat too. Because he has thought about it ... so many times.

Ragnor grabs them both and hauls them to their feet. “You’ll have your wish, boy. Your master will be warm in no time.”

The two of them are untied from the cart and dragged over to the fire, where Arthur is pushed down with his back against a couple of crates. Merlin’s feet are freed, and then they shove him down on Arthur’s lap, with his knees bent so his legs are on either side of Arthur's. Arthur’s arms are pulled painstakingly over Merlin’s head and down to surround his waist.

Arthur is definitely awake now, his eyes wide and jaw tight. Merlin swallows and looks up at Ragnor, because it’s safer; he’s shared a lot of long looks with Arthur before, in significant moments, but none as dangerous as now, when the King might read too much of the truth in his flushed cheeks. They, at least, are not cold anymore.

Ragnor smiles, and it’s almost friendly. “Well? I’m giving you a chance to get your master’s blood pumping again. So hop to it.”

“I don’t understand.” Although maybe he does, because Arthur’s legs are big and solid between his own, and his arms have Merlin trapped close against his chest, and his breath curls against Merlin’s cheek with every exhale. There is an inescapable physicality to their situation that speaks clearly of Ragnor’s intentions for them.

It’s one of the other men that speaks up helpfully. “Ride him, idiot-boy. Give us a show.”

No misunderstandings there.

Ragnor goes to sit down next to Mordred, who looks faintly disapproving and a little confused.

Arthur bows his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Merlin can’t speak. 

“Get to it,” Ragnor says. “Or his Highness will spend the night sleeping naked in the snow.”

Merlin swallows again, and begins to move his hips. It’s stilted at first, his body too tired and stiff to obey him properly, but the fire at his back is thawing his limbs, and despite himself he begins to melt into the rhythm, the swivelling movement of his hips.

Arthur is looking determinedly straight ahead, which doesn’t help because it makes Merlin feel as if Arthur is looking straight through his chest and into the chamber where his heart is beating hard and fast.

Someone laughs, an ugly bark of sound. “The King of Camelot is a lucky man. I wish I had a girl who could ride like that.”

Humiliation makes Merlin’s head spin. He misses a beat and can’t seem to start moving again, and it startles Arthur into lifting his gaze and then they’re locked together with an intimacy that makes Merlin realise just how much both their bodies have thawed because oh, that’s not cold at all.

“Are you jealous, Hamár?” Ragnor asks, chuckling. “Maybe we should keep the boy, hand his Majesty over by himself? It would be nice to have a warm body to hold on these long winter nights.”

Merlin trembles, ducking his head. He feels Arthur’s arms around him tighten and his jaw clench.

Surprisingly, Mordred comes to their rescue. “The Lady Morgana knows them both well. She’ll no doubt pay extra, even for the servant. She’d be displeased if she were denied him.”

Ragnor glances at Mordred, intrigued and annoyed at the same time. Then he shrugs. “Looks like it’s your loss, Hamár. I’ll take the money first any day.”

Across the fire, Hamár groans theatrically in disappointment.

Merlin doesn’t stop trembling, but it’s from relief now.

“What did you stop for, boy?” Ragnor asks.

“Give me a minute,” Merlin says, the words born just behind his teeth with no connection to his brain or his heart.

Then Ragnor is coming over to grab Merlin by the hair and pull his head back. “You’re not listening to me, boy. I thought you said he was cold and you wanted to help him.” It isn’t apparent that he wants some sort of answer before the hand in Merlin’s hair becomes cruel. “Well? Do you want to save your master or no?”

“I do,” Merlin grits out, eyes tearing up.

“Good, then you’ll do better than you have so far.”

“He will,” Arthur says, and the sound of his voice is familiar and beloved in a way that makes Merlin’s heart ache. “Let him go.”

He is released with a shove, and doesn’t lift his head again, hiding his face against Arthur’s cheek.

Then Arthur’s breath is hot on his ear. “Come on, Merlin. We have to get this over with.”

But when Merlin shoves down again it punches a groan out of Arthur, making the men laugh uproariously.

“Someone’s enjoying himself.”

Merlin doesn’t stop again, doesn’t dare to, but he has to make himself move because now he knows, now he can feel that Arthur is aroused, the shape and warmth of him even through his trousers, and it makes his own body respond in kind. Before there was only friction, now it translates into pleasure. There’s a coil low in his stomach that is wound tighter with every thrust, every time the shocking hardness of Arthur’s cock shoves against his own. Merlin digs his fingertips into the short hairs at Arthur’s nape, forgets himself and mouths at Arthur’s cold neck.

Arthur is breathing harder, his legs spreading a little to give Merlin better access, and Merlin almost whimpers at the way his own legs are forced to spread with them. Oh, he has thought about this too.

But he can’t do it like this, surrounded by people, with Ragnor’s mocking gaze and Mordred’s unreadable one like tangible weights on him. So he leans his head back and looks up at the stars. Pretends that there is nothing but Arthur against him and the bright lights above him in the whole world.

He is utterly surprised when Arthur uses his hold on Merlin’s waist to drag him down in one, two, three sharp thrusts and growls at him “Come for me.”. Merlin isn’t usually one for obeying orders but on the other hand he can never deny Arthur when he’s being honest about his needs, so when Arthur adds “Now, Merlin.” in a wrecked voice, Merlin shudders and comes in his trousers, his hips jerking forward on their own accord before stilling. Arthur continues to thrust up against him, and Merlin holds on, holds his master close, until Arthur too shudders and is still.

Hooting and catcalls bring them back to Earth. The stars are far away and cold. But at least Arthur and Merlin are both warm, and not just because of the fire.


	2. And the earth held its breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur struggles with shame, guilt and desire.

The cold is slowly creeping into Arthur’s bones from the ground beneath him, and the air is like ice against his exposed cheek. He pushes his numb hands further into his armpits and bows his head against the elements. Even surrounded by bodies and horses, and having made camp in a hollow that should protect them from the wind, Arthur is frozen through.

“Can’t you sleep, Sire?”

Percival, big and solid behind him. Arthur glances over his shoulder, but gives no other reply. He doesn’t want to complain, seeing as he’s been wrapped in several cloaks while some of his men are sharing one between them. There is a moment’s pause, and then Percival shuffles closer, putting one arm around Arthur slowly, as if he’s dealing with some easily frightened hart and not a man. Then again, Arthur hasn’t felt like a man since …

“Better?”

Arthur can’t disappoint the boyish hope in Percival’s tone. “Yes, thank you.” He has already hurt the knight once, when he snapped at him for suggesting that Arthur lie next to the fire. Arthur couldn’t. Merlin is sitting by it, on first watch with Gwaine, and Arthur can’t watch the firelight on Merlin’s hair.

Morgana, the dragon, the Diamair, it all seems like some dark dream, less real than the darker, colder night that came before. When he held Merlin in his arms. The events of today are already fading from his memory, but last night he remembers vividly, from the pressure of Merlin’s fingertips in his hair, to the silky heat of his lips against Arthur’s skin, and the solid weight of him on Arthur’s lap.

The pit of Arthur’s stomach is a tight knot. It keeps him from relaxing, from eating, and from looking Merlin in the eye. Merlin, who was willing to throw away his pride to keep Arthur warm. Merlin, who even kissed Arthur’s neck, all to help him reach the edge.

_It was what they wanted to see. Ragnor would have done worse if you hadn’t let yourself come undone._

It doesn’t justify the way he used Merlin to get there. Merlin, who never gives less than his all for Arthur.

Arthur closes his eyes and tries to divorce himself from his own body, to become one with the icy air and the hard ground.

~~’~~

Caerleon is not like Camelot. It lies to the North, in wilder, more rugged terrain, and the people reflect their land. Queen Annis’ knights live in the lower levels of the castle, and grudgingly open their doors to the bedraggled knights of Camelot. That evening, before the feast that will celebrate the successful mission, the great bath house is readied for a different sort of party.

More than anything, Arthur wants to have a private bath and then curl up under his furs and sleep for days, but there are too many reasons why he shouldn't and can't. While the Queen has forgiven him, her men still think of Arthur as the man who killed their King, and as if sensing this, the knights of Camelot are all the more eager to show their pride in him. If Arthur does not attend the bath, he would not only be disappointing his own men, but giving the men of Caerleon a chance to talk behind his back. That would cause fighting for sure, and there has been enough fighting. He needs to cultivate the spark of trust he gained by rescuing the men Morgana kidnapped from the villages of Caerleon.

Also, a private bath would mean that he and Merlin would be alone, and that, Arthur cannot yet bear. He could order another servant to do for him, but it would raise too many questions, and hurt Merlin’s pride. He won’t do that again.

So to the bath house Arthur goes, and he is greeted with rousing cheers as he enters. For a moment he is blinded by heat and steam, and then the room comes into view. It's been dug out in the side of the hill that the castle is nestled up against, the ground is hard-packed and strewn with rushes, the walls panelled with sturdy wood. Two great fireplaces have been lit with roaring fires that cast an orange glow over the room. There are three big tubs, all built into the floor, and steam rises from the water to curl under the ceiling.

The beer is already flowing freely, and the men are loud and full of cheer. They are also naked as babies, which would not have bothered Arthur before. Now he hardly knows where to look. Sir Ulfius appears with a tankard for Arthur, and he drinks it down in one.

“Woah there, your Majesty,” calls Sir Bedivere, a veteran knight who used to give Arthur piggy-back rides when he was just a tot. “The night is young still.”

Arthur raises his empty tankard in salute, but makes no other answer. Speech has come hard to him ever since they left the Citadel of Ismere and he was no longer high on adrenaline.

He goes into the adjacent room to undress, but has to make himself pull his shirt over his head. The drag of cloth over his skin triggers fever-pain, that tingling ache that usually accompanies sickness, and he shudders as his heart thuds harder in his chest. Merlin isn’t here, but he is still with Arthur, filling his head, heart, and body. Arthur wants Merlin, wants to feel Merlin strain against him as he finds completion on Arthur’s command.

 _Wrong_ , says the knot in Arthur’s stomach. _Wrong, wrong, wrong!_

 _Beautiful_ , says Arthur’s heart.

This room is isolated to keep the damp from getting in and soaking clothes and equipment, and there is no fire here. Gooseflesh breaks out over Arthur’s arms and thighs as he takes off his boots, trousers, socks and smallclothes.

Naked, he re-enters the bath, and the heat envelops him, heightening his fever, but failing to chase the chill in his bones. He’s barely taken three steps into the room before Gwaine bursts through the door, a struggling Merlin slung over his shoulder.

“Look who I found hiding in the King’s chambers!” the knight shouts.

There's another cheer and several cries of “Merlin!”.

Arthur is never more proud of his knights than when they show their devotion to Merlin, which has grown so strong over the years that they would die for him as readily as for Arthur. It's ridiculous, he knows, but Arthur has even begun to judge potential knights on how well they get along with his manservant. Good men cannot help but love Merlin, bad men cannot help but dislike him.

Gwaine turns around so that Merlin is facing the room. Arthur holds his breath and stands very still, hoping to go unnoticed.

“Everyone,” the knight says over his shoulder. “This is Merlin. He needs a bath. Merlin, meet everyone.”

The men of Caerleon laugh, and the sound makes Arthur’s heart stop beating altogether. Merlin’s mouth is smiling, but his eyes are wounded and uncertain.

Arthur wants to howl. He can’t move. He wants to hide his nakedness, but he won’t be able to dress himself again before Gwaine overtakes him. It seems so inane, because Merlin has dressed and undressed Arthur a hundred times, and helped him in the bath just as many. Arthur has always been proud of the body he has built, the scars he has earned, and he has, he must admit, enjoyed showing off for Merlin, who had blushed and turned away at first but then come to be proud too, because it was a body he helped to take care of.

In turn, Arthur is proud of how Merlin has grown, from a soft boy, through a skinny youth, to a strong man with scars of his own. And they will be revealed in a breath or two if Gwaine has his way.

“Come on, Merlin. The King’s manservant can’t run around smelling like a troll.”

“Oi, Gwaine!” Percival shouts from the depth of one of the tubs. “You’ll be joining him, I hope?”

“Socks and all,” Gwaine replies.

And then he’s coming towards Arthur and Arthur still cannot move.

“My King,” Gwaine says with equal parts reverence and mocking, making as big a bow as carrying Merlin will let him. Merlin’s head is bowed.

Arthur inclines his head shortly, looking away. Then they are gone, into the next room. Arthur grabs another tankard of beer and climbs into the furthest tub, where Percival is.

“We need to build one of these at home. It’s fantastic,” Percival says, grinning from ear to ear.

“Yeah,” Arthur says and drinks to hide that he can barely speak.

He means to look away, but when Gwaine struts back inside like he’s God’s gift to mankind and he knows it, Arthur’s eyes are drawn to him despite themselves. Drawn to Merlin, coming in behind Gwaine, all bare, white skin and dark hair that’s already curling at the tips. He is broad-shouldered and tall, and elbowing Gwaine aside with a playfulness that covers desperation, so he can get to the water. Merlin moves quickly through the steam, nodding to the knights he knows and bowing lower to the ones he doesn’t.

Arthur’s mouth has gone dry. He is relieved when Merlin stops at another tub, but then Gwaine is there to drag Merlin on, and it doesn’t take them ten steps to reach the tub where Arthur would like to be hiding behind Percival. Gwaine splashes noisily into the water, and Merlin slides, more hesitantly, in after him.

For a moment only, Arthur and Merlin look at each other, eyes meeting, the weight of their secret hanging over them both. Then they look away. Arthur drains his second tankard and is happy that his head is beginning to spin. He wonders if the gooseflesh on Merlin’s arms is from the lingering cold of the other room, or from fear and disgust.

Another veteran soldier, of Caerleon, raises his tankard. “Here’s to the King of Camelot, who rescued our men from hell and led them back to their homes, their women, and this bath house.”

The room shakes with the loudest cheer yet, and then the soldiers of Camelot begin to sing. Any other time, Arthur would have been blushing with pride to hear his coronation song, but not today. He blushes for shame today.

Blow, trumpet, for the world is white with May;  
Blow trumpet, the long night hath rolled away!  
Blow through the living world—"Let the King reign."

Blow trumpet! he will lift us from the dust.  
Blow trumpet! live the strength and die the lust!  
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.

Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May!  
Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day!  
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign.

Arthur doesn’t feel mighty. He feels small and sick and guilty.

“Die the lust,” Gwaine repeats, laughing because if there’s one thing that will never die, it’s lust. Gwaine’s especially.

And yet lust is the beast within that Arthur would give anything to kill, so that he would not feel so conflicted over what should have been a crime, but felt more like a gift. Across the tub, Merlin’s dark eyes and pale skin sing to Arthur. It’s a melody altogether more haunting, and it won’t leave him alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is from Alfred Lord Tennyson's _Idylls of the King_.
> 
> While this will be part of the story later, I want to mention here already that Arthur and Gwen are not married in this verse. Just so you know why I won't be bringing up infidelity as an issue.


	3. Your hearts beat as one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queen Annis knows.

The King and his knights have certainly been naked together before, discarded their armour and raced down to the edge of a lake or a river, shouting for courage against the cold water, throwing themselves in with whoops of joy. So this is not the first time Arthur has watched Gwaine rub soap into Merlin’s hair, but he’s never been so sick with the sight. He has never paused to watch as Gwaine eases Merlin back to rinse out the suds, calloused hands gentle on Merlin’s temples. Gwaine has clearly cottoned on, realised that horsing around will not fix what is broken in Merlin.

It scares Arthur to the core to think that Gwaine might find out, that Merlin might tell him. Gwaine is no saint, but Arthur has become a black and shrivelled thing, and next to him, Gwaine shines white. His judgement, as Camelot’s best knight and Merlin’s best friend, would be unbearable.

Merlin sighs, and Gwaine smiles and rubs Merlin’s shoulders. “Feels nice to be clean again?”

Merlin looks over his shoulder with a smile, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes, and Arthur thinks he might throw up as he realises that his own presence in the tub is making the water dirty. He wants to scrub at his skin until only his bones are left.

“Thank you,” Merlin says, and the sound of his voice is sweet torture. Arthur can’t take it. He turns around and climbs quickly out of the tub.

“Where are you going?” Percival asks, confused.

Arthur shakes his head, which makes his drunken dizziness worse, and he steps quickly towards the changing room.

Then, horror of horrors, Merlin is calling after him. “Do you need me to-”

Arthur shuts the door behind himself, cutting off the sound. Was Merlin really about to offer to dress him? His traitorous mind immediately supplies the scenario; Merlin following him into the changing room, naked like Arthur. He’d pick up a towel and run it all over Arthur’s body, to dry him. Then Arthur would take the towel and say “Your turn”, and Merlin would smile brilliantly, and Arthur would reach out-

Arthur rubs himself dry until his skin is red and raw, but the dirt is underneath, where he can’t get at it. He pulls his pants on and tucks his half-hard cock away quickly, lest his hands get any ideas about lingering. How can this thing unmake him in two different ways at once? How can the scene of his crime also be the scene of his dream come true?

Upon their return to Caerleon, Arthur had been given a set of clothes to replace the Saxon gear he had worn in Ismere. He pulls on sturdy, dark trousers, fur-lined boots, a proper belt for his sword, and a fine white shirt. Arthur doesn’t think he’ll ever wear white again, once he returns to Camelot. It feels like a lie against his skin.

He has to brace himself before going back outside, and he tries to keep his strides even and slow, nodding his regrets to the men who wonder why he is leaving when he only just arrived. He makes no excuses, however, as he has none. He doesn’t look in Merlin’s direction.

In his chambers he finds his jacket, a short, tough-skinned thing, also fur-lined. He stops there only long enough to pull the garment on, and then he’s walking through the castle, climbing staircases wherever he finds them, until he’s on the battlements. The wind stings here, and it sobers him up. He stands there, all alone and floating somewhere between deep thought and blank existence, until it becomes too cold, and then he sits down just inside the doorway, where he can still look up at the blue sky.

_Too soon, they had been dragged out of their forced embrace and hurled back out of the circle of light. With their bound hands once more tied with long ropes to the end of the wagon, they had lain down back to back and tried to sleep. When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Arthur had begun to notice other prisoners watching them, eyes pitying, mocking, envious or disgusted. Slowly, the rabble around the fire had quieted down, falling asleep one by one until only a watchman remained, sitting with his back to the prisoners._

_Snores had filled the little hollow._

_Arthur had thought Merlin lost to the world as well, until he noticed subtle movement against his back. At first, he couldn’t tell what it meant, until he heard a scraping sound, and Merlin hissed quietly. More muffled gasps followed, until Arthur had realised that Merlin was using snow to clean himself._

_Arthur thinks he would have liked to turn around, pull Merlin around to face him, scoot down and peal his trouser flaps away with stiff fingers, lean in and lick melted snow and bitter spend away, dragging his mouth over sensitive skin until Merlin made softer, more urgent sounds._

He jolts awake in the doorway, his body aching from being curled up on the unyielding stones, and feeling windswept and empty. He senses that he’s late for the feast.

He gets lost on the way back because he refuses to ask the guards for directions, but once he gets to the ground level of the castle, he regains his bearings. At least until he finds Mordred in the hallway outside the feasting hall. The young man is standing indecisively before the door, arms hanging limply at his sides, and he turns too soon, as if he senses Arthur before he hears him. 

Every step forward takes Arthur back; the torches on the wall become a campfire, the Caerleon soldiers at the door become bandits, and Mordred’s eyes weigh him down with what they know. I saw, they say. But as usual, there is no judgement to be found, no trace of what Mordred might think of Arthur in the wake of that night.

Arthur clears his throat, stopping next to the young druid and gesturing to the door. “Waiting for an invitation?”

Mordred smiles, looks down and shakes his head. “I am used to taking my meals alone and out of doors. I am unfit for celebrations such as these.”

Arthur understands. He recalls that Mordred was not at the baths either. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re one of us, now. You’re welcome.” He pushes open the door before he can lose his nerve, and they enter together. There is a lull in the merry-making as people turn to see who has arrived.

Merlin straightens up too fast from where he was bent close to the Queen, and whatever she was saying dies on her lips. Merlin is dressed in plain Caerleon fashion, but rather than make him plain in turn, the dark browns enhance the whiteness of his soft, clean skin, and the shocking blue of his eyes. Arthur feasts on the sight because he’s a glutton for punishment, and because his closed throat will allow him no other sustenance tonight.

“Forgive my late arrival, Your Majesty,” he says as he walks along the table to his seat.

Merlin backs away, holding his jug of wine in front of himself like a shield. He needn’t worry; Arthur won’t be calling on him.

When Arthur sits down, Annis’ smile is quick, but her eyes are not kind, and it makes Arthur wonder. Servants come with trays, and he lets them fill his plate, though his body protests the sight and smell of food. Slowly, the noise level rises again, as the knights, lords and ladies drink and laugh together. Arthur picks at his food in order to avoid questions, and catches sight of Mordred further down the table, sitting between Sir Bedivere and Sir Pelliam.

Finally, Queen Annis asks lightly, “So, Arthur, will you regale me with your adventures in Ismere, or must I wait for the bard's version?”

Her tone is too light, her expression too carefully neutral.

Arthur puts down his knife. “Of course, my lady. Though it’s not much of an adventure.” She leans back in her chair expectantly. He begins at the beginning, with the uneventful ride they had through Caerleon into Ismere, coming quickly to Morgana’s surprise attack on their party only a few miles past the border. He wonders out loud how Morgana knew of their plan, expressing his concern for Camelot, left behind without a ruler, but he soon moves on because the Queen’s expression is becoming impatient.

As he speaks of the battle, the flow of his words slow down. “I was ... wounded, a blow to my back, after which I remember nothing until I woke up in safety.” He swallows, breath heavy in his chest. He is surrounded by eager listeners, with eyes trained on his narrative, and this is the part where he cannot avoid the name anymore. The name he hasn’t spoken for days. “But I have come to understand that ... Merlin dragged me from the melee and hid me from Morgana.”

Before he can go on, the Queen turns and beckons to Merlin. Merlin, who is all the way over by the wall. Merlin, who comes only reluctantly, eyes on the floor like he’s done something wrong.

“You impress yet again, Merlin,” the Queen says, “Spiriting Arthur away right under Morgana’s nose. I should like to know how you did it.”

Merlin shrugs. “I didn’t do anything special. I just ran.”

The Queen looks from Merlin to Arthur, clearly expecting some comment from him. Arthur mirrors Merlin’s shrug. An awkward moment passes in which it becomes clear that this is not going to develop into a conversation, before Arthur tries to save the situation by moving his tale forward. His next words place himself and Merlin at the foot of the citadel, looking for a way in. Everything in between is a bad dream.

He explains how they rallied the slaves and overwhelmed the unsuspecting Saxons. He leaves out the Diamair, but gives what details he can on Morgana, especially her new pet dragon. While he speaks, he goes through the events mentally, recalling each look that passed between himself and Merlin, trying to interpret the nature of the silence that hung between them, and bitterly longing to experience again the sweetness of Merlin’s eager sacrifice of himself to the dragon, and the equally sweet, simple choice Arthur made to go after him. He wonders if they’ll have to be in mortal peril from now on in in order for their old ways to return to them.

“You are deceiving me, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur startles.

Annis’ voice is hard as flint, her mouth set in a thin line, but Arthur can only stare uncomprehendingly back at her. The Queen lets her hand sweep the room. “Look around, Arthur, and see if you can’t recognise a few of the faces at the table.”

Arthur looks, sees his own knights, but obviously that’s not what Annis means, so he keeps looking. And then the first familiar face appears, and a second, and a third. There are men here at court who were Ragnor’s prisoners at the same time as Arthur and Merlin. Like ghosts, they have torn themselves out of Arthur’s bad dream, and sit at the table in the guise of mortal men. Arthur knows better, though; they are but spectres come to destroy him.

He can’t breathe. He tries to sense Merlin’s presence behind him, but Merlin has retreated back to the wall, and Arthur can’t turn around, cannot complete the connection the Queen is asking him to make, in front of the ghosts who know.

The Queen looks triumphant. “So you see, I know more than you think, Pendragon. Now will you tell me-”

“No!” He’s standing, horrified. How can she suggest that he speak at all, let alone here? His heart is beating so fast.

Her eyes widen in surprise and outrage. “But I demand it.”

He pushes his chair back in order to retreat, takes a step.

Queen Annis stands slowly, a pillar of strength, raising her hand once more to sweep the table. “Don’t you think my men deserve an explanation? How can you call yourself their saviour, my friend and ally, and commit such acts behind my back?”

Arthur is wild and lost. He backs up another step. All eyes are on him now, wondering, judging, burning him.

And then Merlin charges in between Arthur and the Queen.

“Your Majesty,” he appeals to her. “Please stop-”

“Merlin, don’t!” This cannot be Merlin asking for mercy on Arthur’s behalf. Arthur’s heart will break for sure.

Merlin turns to him. “She has no right to ask this of you!”

Queen Annis goes white. “You will teach your fool manners, Pendragon.”

Arthur grits his teeth. “Merlin, let me handle this.”

Merlin looks as wild as Arthur feels. “But it was my fault!”

Arthur’s heart breaks.

“Arthur!” Mordred. He is standing as well now. Silence trails in the wake of his shout. He looks down at the table, clearing his throat. “I think she means me.”

Arthur shakes his head, uncomprehending. “What?”

Mordred bites his lip. “Her Majesty has been informed that I was in Ragnor’s party. She wants to know why you brought me here as one of your men.”

The Queen casts Mordred a look full of anger, but it is softened by confusion. “Is that not what we were talking about?” She turns back to Arthur, anger draining further at what she sees in his face.

“Oh,” Arthur says, his legs turning liquid in combined relief and mortification.

“Oh,” Merlin echoes softly.

Annis raises an eyebrow. “What on earth did you think I was accusing you of, Arthur Pendragon?” she says, her tone considerably gentler.

Arthur can feel his whole face glowing hot. His heart is still thundering away in his chest, and now his eyes are tearing up as well.

_Merlin blames himself._

Merlin is staring down at the table, face and ears as red as Arthur’s must be, body still like a statue, as if he thinks he can disappear from the spot if he ceases to move, to breathe.

Arthur breathes for him, deeply. “I ... Mordred saved my life. He deserves a second chance.”

The Queen is, however, no longer quite so interested in Mordred. “You two should sit down, you look ready to faint.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I need to retire. ... Merlin?”

Merlin nods quickly and is suddenly all movement, putting his pitcher down so hard he spills wine on his own hands, backing up and walking stiffly down the table’s length towards the door. Gwaine is up a second later, going after him. Now, Arthur thinks, Now he will know.

Arthur bows shortly to the Queen and forces himself to meet her eyes.

“We can speak of Mordred in the morning, if it pleases you. Until then, perhaps the man himself can convince you of his worth better than I can.”

He takes two steps backwards, turns on his heel and walks out with his eyes fixed on the door, pretending his voice was not shaking, pretending he doesn’t hear the Queen call his name, pretending he doesn’t hear the whispers that have risen like the tide.

Merlin is not outside, and neither is Gwaine.

Humiliated and wretched, Arthur can barely make his leaden body carry him to his chambers, and once outside that door he tries and fails to brace himself for what comes next, but when he finally manages to go inside, Merlin isn’t there either. The bed is still made, the hearth is cold, and the curtains are drawn back from the window, through which Arthur sees a world that has changed utterly.


	4. A building storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur seeks an outlet in the wrong place.

While it would have been nice to have water in his pitcher, and breakfast on the table, Arthur misses the man who brings him these things more than the things themselves. He misses the sound of the curtains being drawn, and Merlin's never-changing “Rise and shine”, the words seeming as much responsible for flooding the room with light, as does the curtains withdrawing.

This morning, Arthur wakes up to silence, and grey light coming through a window that was never covered. He's fully dressed, lying on his stomach on top of the covers, and feels stiff and chilled, but at least he slept. He dreamt too, though, and the evidence is pressing against the mattress. Still hazy with sleep, he spreads his legs a little and rolls his hips lazily, chasing the buzzing pleasure that is fading with the dream.

Merlin's hair against Arthur’s skin, Merlin's lips against his neck, kissing his pulse. Merlin moaning.

There is a knock on the door and Arthur is up in a second, quickly dragging his fingers through his hair and trying to smooth his wrinkled shirt, but nobody enters, because it isn't Merlin on the other side of the door, and nobody else ever barges in on the King of Camelot without permission.

The knock is repeated, Arthur hurries to sit down at the table in front of the window, clears his throat and says “Come in” as casually as he can. His arousal is fading, replaced by a restless unease centred in his stomach.

The door opens, and a young woman shoulders her way inside, encumbered by the tray she is carrying. She is freckled and skinny, and looks run off her feet despite the early hour. On the tray is a plate of bread, cheese and meat, two wrinkly, red apples, and a goblet of wine.

“Um, I've got your breakfast, my Lord.” She curtseys, and Arthur springs forward to stop the goblet from falling off the tray.

She rights herself quickly, blushing. “Thank you, my Lord.”

He takes the tray from her and places it on the table by the window.

The girl looks around, no doubt taking in the cold hearth and still made bed. “Is there anything I can do for you, my Lord?”

“Did the Queen send you?” Arthur asks, because someone must have guessed that Merlin would not be waiting on Arthur this morning.

The girl fidgets, rubbing her fingers together nervously and keeping her eyes lowered. “No, my Lord.”

Then ...

Arthur sits down, limbs heavy, the storm in his stomach branching out to tighten the muscles in his thighs. He doesn’t want to know, but needs to. “What's your name?”

“Evelyn, my Lord.”

“Evelyn, look at me.”

She does, sighing fretfully and wrapping her hands in her apron.

He leans forward. “Please tell me who sent you. I promise I won't let anyone know that you told me.”

He’s hit the mark, guessing that she’s been sworn to secrecy, because the wringing of her apron intensifies, but he's a King, and she's shy, and all it takes for her to crack is that he waits expectantly.

“Your M-Merlin was down in the kitchens this morning, Sire, wanting to know if you’d had your breakfast. He asked me to bring it to you.”

Arthur hurts. “Thank you, Evelyn.” He sends her away.

Then he turns to his food. This is Merlin trying to keep up with his duties from afar. This is loyalty that Arthur does not deserve.

He doesn't want to eat, doesn't think he can keep it down, but it's been that way for days, and his whole body is beginning to protest. So he eats the apples and the cheese, and takes a bite out of the bread and meat. He tells himself that he owes it to Merlin.

The storm inside is making him restless. It’s not a good state to see the Queen in, but he has to go to her if he wants to have any hope of restoring himself in her eyes. They’ll talk about Mordred, and he will apologise for last night, and then he’ll take Excalibur down to the practice field and kill someone.

But when he reaches the throne room, Arthur is informed that the Queen is in closed council, and will remain there all morning. Like when having to pull an arrow from a wound, he can’t decide whether to be relieved at the reprieve, or frustrated that he can’t just get it over with.

The storm creeps under his skin, writhing unbearably. He can’t meet Queen Annis like this; he doesn’t know what he might do, so he brings his plans forward and goes down to the training field.

Every time he turns a corner, he fears running into Merlin, which he doesn’t, but everyone else he meets looks at him like they know all about last night, which they probably do. The way gossip carries, the whole castle should know. The question is, what do they think it is that they know? Arthur doesn’t dare to think too closely about last night, to remember the things he said, the things Merlin said.

_“But it was my fault!”_

The training field ground is brown and hard-packed with approaching frost. Winter lies in wait just outside Caerleon’s border, breathing down people’s necks. Arthur fears that when he goes home, he will bring the frost with him, not led by the hand, but pulled along by a string tethered to his heart.

A group of youngsters are practicing with the quarter staff under the watchful eyes of Sir Breunor, Queen Annis’ oldest knight. Another group, consisting of full-fledged knights, are sparring with swords, but they stop when they see Arthur coming. He walks in among them, surveys them for a moment, the scarred veterans and the fresh novices. What do they make of him after last night? But there are no whispers, no leers. They are respectful, and wary of him.

Arthur points his sword at the nearest man. “You. Fight me.”

He’s older than Arthur, handsome, dark. He hesitates. “My Lord?”

Arthur plants his feet and waves the man forward.

The man glances around at his comrades, still not sure what Arthur wants from him, so Arthur lunges. In four strikes he has the man on his knees with Excalibur at his throat.

Arthur backs up a couple of steps. “Up. I told you to fight.”

The man is easily provoked, and gets to his feet quickly. This time, he attacks first. Arthur counters, let’s his body react automatically until he finds the flow of the battle, at which point he immediately takes control. His opponent doesn’t last a minute. Arthur leaves him on his back on the ground, panting and wide-eyed.

He looks around at the men. All other activity on the field has stopped now, squires, knights and trainees all watching. “Are you supposed to be Caerleon’s best men?” He’s playing a dangerous game, but it’s not a sparring match he’s after; it’s a fight. Something to quiet the storm in him and leave his mind blank.

Sir Breunor steps forward.

“I’ll teach you manners, Pendragon,” he says, and Arthur almost laughs in relief.

“Come on, then.”

Their swords clash and it is so satisfying. Sir Breunor is clever with the sword, must have been to have survived so many wars, and he is surprisingly strong for his age. But he is still a man past his prime, while Arthur is in his May, and once Arthur notices the man’s bad leg, the battle is over. A swift kick, and Breunor crumples, and another kick sends his sword flying from his hand.

Arthur is barely winded, but all around him, the soldiers of Caerleon are narrowed-eyed and hefting their swords. It’s promising. He throws himself at them like a wave on the rocks, hoping to be dashed to pieces. 

Arthur has never had reason to regret being Camelot’s best warrior, but when he finally stands alone amidst beaten, groaning men, he does. He extends his hands with something like despair rising in his chest. “Come on! Give me a fight, at least. Someone in Caerleon has to be able to do that!”

“I can.”

Arthur turns around, and his heart stutters. Gwaine’s brows are lowered, his eyes dark. Does he know? Did Merlin tell him last night?

Six more of Camelot’s knights, Percival and Bedivere among them, have come with Gwaine.

But no Merlin.

Arthur snorts, mocking. “You’ve never beaten me, Gwaine, and you never will.” His tone is playful, nothing like the turmoil beneath his skin, which has, if anything, grown worse. But his pulse is quickening in anticipation. Gwaine is ferocious in his anger.

A wind blows across the training field, lifting Gwaine’s cape.

“Where is your armour, my King?” Gwaine asks. “Where is your mail? You can’t take on an army in your shirt.”

“You’re hardly an army.”

Gwaine sighs. He unclasps his cape and hands it to Sir Pelliam, comes forward and draws his sword. He tests the ground with his feet and shakes himself, before bending his knees, ready to meet Arthur.

Arthur spins Excalibur on his wrist once, twice, three times and then he’s flowing into Gwaine’s space, attacking without warning, but Camelot’s best knight does not disappoint; he steps easily into the dance with Arthur, countering him move for move and striking back whenever he can. They dance, vying for control.

The world fades around them. Steel and breath create the only sounds, the violence of their bodies is the only thing that’s important. This is what Arthur needs: the adrenaline to drown out the nausea, the thrill and the fear to counter the shame.

Until he realises that Gwaine isn’t fighting to win. Gwaine is a brilliant swordsman, and against Arthur he has always brought all his ingenuity, speed and strength to bear, and today he isn’t even being arrogant, which is the weakness that usually fells him. But there are no surprise moves, no daring chances; Gwaine is playing it safe, wearing Arthur down.

Fine. If Gwaine isn’t angry enough yet, Arthur can fix that. The next time they have a little space to breathe, Arthur laughs. “After all these years, you still can’t beat me.” Gwaine’s face is set in grim determination, he doesn’t seem to be listening. Arthur frowns. He is coming down from his high; the storm is catching up with him, growing, growing. Too many thoughts are crowding his skull.

He should have left Merlin alone with the stars, given him space to escape from their mutual violation, not dragged him back down to Earth to cater to Arthur’s filthy dreams. Arthur had been desperate to give Ragnor what he wanted, lest the bandit decided to change the game, but he couldn’t do it, couldn’t come with so many eyes scorching him, couldn’t come unless he allowed himself to believe that Merlin wanted him back. He can tell himself that he did it to save Merlin from a worse fate, but that doesn’t lessen the selfish pleasure he gained from it. From raping Merlin.

Arthur dances away from Gwaine’s blade, the storm unleashed and howling inside of him, and in a last ditch effort to make Gwaine give him what he needs, he shouts, “Lancelot was a better knight than you will ever be!”

Predictably, Gwaine’s face darkens with rage, and Arthur’s breath catches in relief. Then he backs right into Percival, who grabs Arthur’s wrists and traps them against his chest. Gwaine rests the tip of his sword against Arthur’s throat.

“Where is your armour, Arthur?” Gwaine asks again, his anger reined in tightly. “You taught us that a knight is only as good as how he treats his horse, his gear, and the beggar after his coin. You abandoned your gear in Ismere. Why, Arthur?”

Because there were stains on his gambeson, and he had some stupid idea about leaving the past behind with his clothes.

The men of Caerleon are still watching, the youngsters looking a little stunned by the swordplay they just witnessed. Arthur squirms. “Release me, Percival!”

Percival lets go, but not before grabbing Excalibur. Arthur tugs at the hilt, but Percival holds firm, eyes too soft and understanding, and eventually Arthur just can’t fight him anymore. He let’s go of his sword and turns to face Gwaine.

Sir Breunor mercifully barks the order for everyone to get back to their tasks, and the men shuffle off reluctantly, but it’s foolish to think that they will not still be watching.

Arthur’s bruises are finally catching up with him, but all it means is that he feels battered on the outside as well as the inside. He feels worse than when he came out here.

Gwaine lets his sword fall. He looks like he’s despairing. “What’s going on, Arthur?”

“Merlin,” Percival says.

Arthur turns too fast, and there he is, hair windswept and cheeks red from the cold, doubled over and breathing hard from having run.

“Arth- ... Arthur!” Merlin calls, and Arthur is next to him in no time, already certain that something is wrong.

“What?” he asks softly.

Merlin straightens up, runs a hand through his hair and grips, tugging, teeth clenched. Then his eyes find Arthur’s. “They’ve caught Ragnor. Queen Annis is presiding over his trial right now.”

Arthur looks up towards the castle. He can’t make his body move, though he should be running for his life, to get there in time to ... to do what exactly?

“He’ll tell,” he says.

Merlin just looks at him, and Arthur almost blesses the Gods who seem to be so against them, because Arthur and Merlin are now united, if only because they are about be cast out by the world they know.


	5. Tied together with string

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin thinks of a way to keep Arthur safe.

Merlin has come too close, too many times, to losing Arthur, but he has never even imagined it could happen like this. Even in the worst case scenario of his magic being revealed and Arthur hating him for it, Merlin always expected it to mean he would lose Arthur completely, as surely as if they were dead. This, though, this is like being tied together with a mess of cutting string, and roasted slowly over the same fire.

Even when they are apart, Merlin feels all tangled up in Arthur, in memories of the past and in the hopes he had nursed for the future. The present is leaden, the nights and days dragging and blurring, filled up with emotions so acute they cause Merlin physical pain.

For one glorious moment, he had believed that Arthur loved him, and now he is paying for that foolishness. Arthur’s averted eyes and hunched shoulders make up Merlin’s punishment, and it hurts him more than hate could, because it means Merlin has no one to blame but himself.

And, of course, Ragnor. It’s with mixed feelings that Merlin follows Arthur back to the castle, while the frustrated knights of Camelot trail behind them. He feels nauseated at the idea of seeing Ragnor and his gaggle of dogs again, and cold with fear to think of what they might say. 

Last night, he had all but run from Gwaine, and he can still feel the hurt and anger radiating off the man walking just behind him, but he hadn’t been capable of opening up and exposing that bundle of nerves, not even to his friend, even though he knows that Gwaine would not judge him.

But what could he have said?

_I thought he loved me, when he grabbed me like that, more commanding and more noble than he has ever been. But then in the morning, Ragnor asked if Arthur was still warm, and Arthur was sick behind the cart afterwards, and he wouldn’t look at me. I was wrong. He doesn’t love me. I was his friend, and when he was most in need of that friendship, I betrayed him, forced my love on him. Now he can’t stand to be near me._

It is far, far too embarrassing to dwell on his own elation. How much joy he had felt thinking that Arthur … Oh, how could he have been so stupid?

Mordred meets them in the courtyard, coming from the castle and purposefully getting in Arthur’s way.

“It’s already over,” he says, and Merlin’s vision spins for a moment as he imagines cruel laughter echoing through the halls of the citadel.

Arthur must be having a similar thought, because he digs his fingers into Mordred’s arm in a bruising grip. “What happened?” he says through his teeth.

Mordred’s mouth tenses against the pain, but his tone remains calm and quiet. “Nothing was said, except Ragnor wanted to see you. The Queen reminded him firmly that she is the power in Caerleon, but he seemed optimistic nonetheless.”

Slowly, Arthur’s fingers uncurl from around Mordred’s arm. Merlin feels giddy with relief, even as worry gnaws at his stomach. If Ragnor wants to see Arthur, it’s surely to try to make a deal of some kind. Merlin can’t stand the thought of Arthur facing Ragnor alone and being forced to handle his jibes and sneers, when it is Merlin who would come out the worse if Ragnor played his card and revealed the truth to the Queen.

“They’ll hang in the morning,” Mordred says, trying to rub his smarting arm without letting on that it’s smarting.

Arthur draws a deep breath. “They’ll be in the dungeons then. I’ll go there now.”

Merlin grabs the King’s sleeve. “Don’t.” He can do this for Arthur, take this burden from him, and maybe Merlin will find some atonement in the act.

Arthur turns towards him, and Merlin goes hot and red under the brilliance of those eyes.

“Might as well get it over with, Merlin,” Arthur says, far too gently.

“No.” Merlin shakes his head. “Let Ragnor stew in the dungeons for a while. Wait until he asks for you again. It’ll buy us time and steal from his.”

Arthur shifts from foot to foot, reluctant, but seeing reason. Finally, he nods. "I'll wait." He dismisses his men, and Merlin watches with regret as Gwaine stalks off in a huff, Percival following him.

“Um ... Merlin.”

It’s just the two of them now, and Merlin looks down in order not to devour Arthur with his eyes. He has no doubt that he will soon be dismissed from Arthur’s service, which means every moment Arthur gives him is precious.

“Yes, Sire?”

“Could you find me another set of clothes, do you think?” He's a little hoarse.

Merlin smiles and dares to glance up. “Of course, Sire. I’ll bring them to your room?”

Arthur nods distractedly. “Yes, that will be fine. T-thank you.” He walks away. Merlin remains behind, watching that broad back and golden head until the darkness of the doorway swallows him.

A new set of clothes. Arthur isn’t the only one who is going to need that, if Merlin means to go through with the plan that is already forming in his mind.


	6. Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin faces Ragnor in the dark.

There is no response when Merlin knocks on the door the first time, so he knocks again, and after a long moment, Arthur calls for him to enter. Merlin pushes the door open with one hand, the bundle of clothes held to his chest with the other.

Arthur is standing in the middle of the room.

“Merlin,” he says simply, looking almost surprised to see him.

Merlin ducks his head respectfully, painfully aware that they are alone, that Arthur has shown faith in him by telling him to come to his chambers, and that Merlin must not betray him again by being anything other than his servant. He has slipped already, calling Arthur by his name when he went to fetch him from the training field, but that was in public, surrounded by friends. Here, they are alone, and these chambers are a place of intimacy, of sleep, sex and nudity. So Merlin must be careful.

“I’ve got your clothes, Sire.”

Arthur fidgets. “Thank you. Just … put them on the bed.”

Merlin puts his bundle down. He runs two fingers idly along the collar of the red tunic.

“When you go to see Ragnor,” he begins. “What will you say to him?”

He glances up to see Arthur shrug.

“He’ll want me to free him, but even if it was in my power, I don’t think I could. He would go back to a life of crime, and my honour is not worth the lives he would destroy.” He looks to Merlin for approval, so Merlin smiles briefly.

“But then ... why see him at all?”

Arthur presses his lips together. He shifts in place and looks elsewhere again. “I don’t know. I suppose I’d regret it if I didn’t.” He doesn’t ask if Merlin intends to go.

Merlin nods slowly, and looks around the room in case there is something that needs to be done before he leaves. He doesn’t dare offer to assist Arthur with dressing, though. Not again.

There is water in the pitcher, the hearth is stacked with firewood, ready to be lit, and it is too early to prepare the bed, so there is nothing to keep Merlin. “I’ll just go then.” He walks backwards towards the door. “If there’s nothing else.” He has his hand on the door handle when he is called back.

“Merlin.”

Arthur has taken Merlin’s previous position by the bed, a hand on the bedpost, back half turned to Merlin.

“My lord?”

“I need to apologise.”

Merlin shakes his head. “You have nothing-”

“I do.” Arthur turns around in that slow, measured way he will move when he is facing some terrible task. His hands are restless at his sides. “I need you to know that I would do anything to make it so this never happened, give anything to be able to take it back.”

The words stab into Merlin like a knife, killing remnants of his foolish dream that he didn’t even know he still carried. He can feel tears gathering in his eyes and blinks furiously to stop them. “Yes, my lord.”

Arthur releases a heavy breath and drags his hand awkwardly through his hair. “I hope ... I realise that you’ll want to leave ... my service. But I hope-”

“My lord, if there’s nothing else, I really should go,” Merlin says quickly. He’s going to cry, he needs to get out of here. Arthur doesn’t want him at all anymore. Arthur wants him to resign. “I’ll find someone to serve you during dinner tonight,” he continues, pulling open the door.

Arthur takes a step forward, reaching for him. “Merlin?”

Merlin almost stumbles out the door, blinded by tears. He runs until he is sure that Arthur didn’t come after him, and then he walks the short route to the corridor where he spent most of last night. He goes straight to the door of his chosen victim, looks around to make sure he is alone, and whispers a spell that will enhance his hearing. He leans in to listen, after irritably wiping at his eyes. From distant parts of the citadel, he can hear shouts and murmurs, and the sounds of metal and wood striking each other, but not even breathing can be heard from inside these chambers. Another whispered spell unlocks the door, and Merlin slips inside.

He finds the wardrobe, pulls it open and begins rifling through it for a robe. The man staying here is not much older than Merlin, and of roughly the same build. Merlin spent hours curled up on a window ledge just down the corridor last night, and saw the man come in after the feast, which is how he knew to come here now.

He’s scattered half the contents of the wardrobe on the floor before he finds something he can make do with: an ensemble in blue consisting of trousers, a long tunic, and a floor-length open jacket. The material is heavy and rich, the embroidery on the jacket intricate, and blue is a rare dye, so Merlin has no doubt he is robbing his victim of his finest clothes, but he doesn’t care. He dresses with jerky motions, stopping now and then to wipe at his nose or his eyes, and uses magic to do up the row of tiny buttons on the front. He’s almost out of the door before he remembers that his boots don’t exactly go with the new outfit. The solution is a pair of shoes that are just this side of too small. He tries a couple of steps and grimaces when they squeeze his feet painfully.

He glares down at them. _“Rýmaþ.”_ Nothing happens. _“Rýmaþ!”_ He feels a feeble stirring in the leather, and then, if anything, the shoes grow tighter. Merlin’s hands ball into fists. He closes his eyes, making fresh tears slip down his cheeks.

Arthur would give anything …

_“Rýmaþ!”_

Power roars through him, the shoes tear with a frightful sound and lie in tatters around his feet.

Merlin sobs, once, body shaking, and then he grabs his own boots and shoves his feet back into them. Damn everything. If anyone dares to say a word about his footwear he’ll turn them into a frog.

His old clothes disappear in a flash of fire and burst of smoke. Full of the power he failed to use when it mattered, Merlin doesn’t need more than his will to make the clothes on the floor shove themselves back into the wardrobe. He doesn’t care that it ends up in a mess.

He wipes at his eyes one last time, and inhales deeply to calm himself. The aging spell requires concentration. Will Arthur wonder where Merlin has gone? Merlin won’t be able to change back without the potion on Gaius’ shelf back home, which means he’ll have to leave for Camelot with no chance of explaining his absence to Arthur. He can leave a note, but what will he say? Perhaps Arthur will be relieved? Merlin pushes those thoughts away. He has a job to do, and everything after will come as it may.

He mumbles the spell and age descends on him like a cloak. He barely waits for the changes to settle before he is out the door, locking it with a careless wave of his hand, and setting off down the corridor.

He’s not even at the first corner before he just breaks down. His breath hitches, and then the first great gasping sobs make him stagger and double over. He finds the wall and slides down along it, curling up and weeping into his knees. Tears and mucus get in his beard and his hair, and he can’t breathe because the convulsions are coming on too fast. He must look a picture; an old man, with gnarly hands clenched in his long hair, rocking himself over loud sobs.

Has he become so self-important that the dead no longer bother him? The people he could have saved if he had been willing to risk himself. Arthur said he would have done anything in his power, and he would have, just like he always does. Merlin could have waved his hand and warmed the shivering prisoners as easily as he had locked that door. He could have killed Ragnor and his men and freed everyone long before they reached the icy valleys. He could have gotten himself and Arthur out of the net without so much as a whisper. It was all within his power, but he chose to do nothing, to preserve a friendship that was based on a lie.

At some point along the road, Merlin has begun to care more about being with Arthur than he cares about the people waiting for him to free them. He has let them down, just as he has let down the men who lie stiff and dead at the campsite in Ismere. Even now, what hurts the most is not the peaceful faces of those dead men, or Mordred’s secret smile when he smuggled Merlin bread the morning after that night. What hurts is that Merlin loves Arthur, but is unworthy, and worse than that, it isn’t even the unworthiness that has caused Arthur to send him away. Arthur just doesn’t love Merlin.

Perhaps there is more to the aging spell than frail bones and wrinkled skin, for when Merlin eventually calms down, he quickly begins to think more practically. Arthur must be spared further humiliation at Ragnor’s hands, not just for personal reasons, but because it would damage his image as king, both at home and with his allies in Caerleon. Merlin has the power to keep Arthur’s secret safe, and this time he fully intends to use it.

His old body takes less kindly to sitting on the floor than his young one does, but once he’s limped a ways, the ache begins to fade. He goes back to the nobleman’s chamber first, to wash his face, conjuring water into the empty basin. A hand mirror found in a drawer tells him he looks a mess still, eyes all red and puffy, but he’s an old man and nobody knows him, so he doesn’t have to give a damn. He sneers at his own image to get into character, and finds that spite makes him feel better.

As he descends into the dungeons, he thinks that the new clothes, hanging heavily on his shoulders, make him feel more like a mighty sorcerer and less like a wounded sparrow. By the time he has to deal with his first guards, Merlin is ready to laugh at them as they sink to the floor, fast asleep at his word.

Then he stands for a moment indecisively at the top of the line, knowing that somewhere in the darkness ahead waits faces he doesn’t want to see, and voices he never wants to hear again. As the guards snore behind him, Merlin realises that he doesn’t actually know what to do with Ragnor, and the others who know and might still use the secret against Arthur. Kill them? Technically, they are already dead men, sentenced to hang. He takes no pleasure from the prospect of speeding them to their end, however, feels only sickened by the thought, frightened that their ghosts will attach themselves to him, that he will have to carry the sounds of their last breaths with him the way he carries their leering smiles.

He takes his first hesitant steps forward, aware that he does not have all the time in the world. He thinks he could silence them, but it would be clear evidence that sorcery was used, and the effect of the spell would be specific enough to perhaps arouse suspicion. Merlin takes a deep breath and pushes himself into a slow walk, looking through the bars for the men. He can decide once he finds them. Perhaps being face to face with Ragnor will provide its own answers.

There are no windows down here, unlike in the dungeons in Camelot, but a torch is burning outside the farthest cell. Merlin is almost there when he is stopped by a voice.

“I thought perhaps the King had come at last, but he cowers in his chambers still, I suppose. Who are you, old man, to have dispatched the guards so quietly? Have you come for the child?”

Merlin squints in the darkness. The torchlight just ahead casts this cell in shadow, and the number of men in it makes it seem darker still.

Merlin expected more than a slight increase in heart rate at the sound of that voice, but his own voice is quite steady when he replies. “I am your judge, Ragnor of Ismere.”

The figure huddled by the bars stands slowly, and when Merlin moves, light falls on his face. Lanky grey hair frames a bruised face. One eye is swollen shut, but the other one is quick as ever, and the split lips are as ready to smile. “I have been judged already. I die in the morning, haven’t you heard?”

Merlin steps closer. “I have. What sort of deal do you imagine the King of Camelot can give you? He is but a man, far from home.”

Ragnor’s eyes narrow, and there is some nervous murmuring from the lot behind him. The Scot does not lose a beat, though. “I thought I would leave it up to His Majesty to supply the imagination. I’ve got nothing to lose, while he’s got a great deal, so I’m sure he could come up with something.”

“Or what? There is no tale to tell, no grand secret, there is only your perversion, and a soldier who did what he had to do to survive.”

At that, Ragnor laughs, though it rings hollow, the mirth of a dead man. “I don’t know what you think you know, old man, but speaking as someone who saw and heard, I would say there is a secret, and it is grand indeed.”

Merlin’s brow furrows in confusion. He can’t make sense of Ragnor’s words. What is he referring to?

Ragnor’s one good eye narrows as he studies Merlin. “I don’t think you ever told us who you are.”

“What will it take to buy your silence?” Merlin asks.

“My freedom,” the Scot replies.

“Then I will free you.” He needs no spell to carry out his intent, only his hands raised to guide the power bursting from behind his eyes. Ragnor is flung back, his head hitting the stones with a wet crack. The other men scramble to their feet with shouts of fear, and begin to scream for the guards, for help, for mercy. Merlin spots Hamár among them, and for the first time, he experiences the cold sweat and nausea he was anticipating. Hamár is the next to die. Their necks snap, their skulls crack open, and their bodies lie sprawled on the floor of the cell like ragdolls.

Merlin leans his clammy forehead on the bars and tries to convince himself that all he has done is deprive the hangman of a day’s wage. It was necessary. For Camelot. For Arthur.

Then he hears the hushed sobs coming from the next cell, the one lit by the torch. He goes to see. A ragged woman is sitting on the straw in a corner, a girl child cradled in her arms.


	7. Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur speaks to Mordred and the Queen.

Merlin leaves. Arthur exhales shakily. That’s it then.

He undresses, kneels on the floor and upends the pitcher over himself. The water is cold enough to make his muscles seize, and he rubs himself clean briskly, shivering all the while. He ought to have lit a fire in the hearth, but he's not actually present in the moment, and so didn't think of it until it was too late. Like a ghost, he goes through half-remembered motions, though aware that they must look like grotesque imitations to the knowing eye. He washes, and dresses himself, and the red shirt is a flaming brand that feels good and right. He takes a moment to just breathe, and finds that the ever-present knot in his stomach allows him breath, at least, if not appetite or rest. He will have to do with breath for the time being.

There is a knock on the door.

“Come.”

A man steps inside and bows shortly. “My lord, the Queen requests that you join her for lunch.”

“I am ready,” Arthur says. “Lead the way.” Out of all his duties, that to his country is the most important; he must be a strong King for Camelot, and that means rectifying the impression he made last night.

When Arthur arrives in the Queen’s chambers, Mordred is already there, seated on the Queen's left hand. A chair is waiting for Arthur on her right. Arthur has readied himself for battle, aware that Annis will, as any good King or Queen would, try to use his recent weakness to her advantage, to shift the balance of power between them, and Arthur cannot let that happen. Luckily, he has great confidence in his decision to take Mordred under his wing. He has confidence in Mordred. As long as that is the Queen's only topic of conversation, Arthur will do fine.

He bows to the Queen and sits when the chair is offered.

“I'm glad you could join us, Arthur,” she says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, and at a wave of her hand, the three servants present step forward to pour wine and heap Arthur's plate with food. He senses a restless satisfaction from Annis, guesses that she still feels the insult of yesterday, but that though she might be eager to show him her lingering displeasure, she is not really angry at him anymore. Across the table, Mordred is wary of them both, but not afraid.

“You have spoken to Mordred already?” Arthur asks, trying to strike a balance between authoritative and repentant. He keeps his eyes on her and Mordred, avoiding the mocking mountain of food in front of him. No doubt the Queen knows exactly how much food he left behind on his plate at breakfast.

“We spoke at length last night.” The Queen confers a smile on Mordred, who bows his head, his features carefully neutral except his eyes, which shine with pride. “He turned out to be a remarkable young man.”

Arthur lifts his goblet in a short salute. “I'm glad you think so. I did not mean to deceive you by bringing him here, I hope you can forgive my mistake.”

She softens, seems almost exasperated with him. With a sigh, she lifts her own goblet and takes a sip. “I forgive you. I understand you had something else on your mind.”

_No, no, no, no, no._

Arthur reaches for an apple. “Mordred, do you know where Morgana might have got her dragon from? I thought the Great Dragon was the last of his kind.”

Immediately, something shutters behind Mordred's expression. He has a tendency to sound like an eager child one moment and an ageless sage the next, an effect of having been brought up by druids, no doubt. It’s the sage that speaks now. “She did not say, my Lord, but it must have hatched recently, to be no bigger than it was. The Great Dragon was the last, but there might still be unhatched eggs hidden in this world. Perhaps Morgana found one.”

Mercifully, the Queen allows Arthur to command the topic for a while, and Arthur seizes on the chance to get everything he can out of Mordred. When did he leave the druids? How did he end up with Ragnor? What did he do in between? Mordred answers reluctantly, and will often look at the Queen as if he can’t understand why they are talking about him when there is royalty in the room.

Annis listens in silence for a long time, but she does finally break in, to ask a question that Arthur has been trying not to think about.

“You’ve seen much, young Mordred, and it will make you a fine knight someday, but what will you say to your people the day your King dispatches you to chase them from his lands? Druids are still unwelcome in Camelot, are they not?”

For a moment, there is a silence between them. Mordred's eyes seek the table.

Arthur takes a breath. “I hope it will not have to come to that, and that if it should, my knight will know that my policy is sound. My relationship with the druids is not what it once was.”

Slowly, Arthur recounts the tale of the druid boy haunting the forest shrine, and how it had been put to rest when Arthur vowed to change. “I promised that I would treat the druids better, and that means giving them the same rights as any other citizen of my realm. At the moment, my only concern is that they still practice magic. Any druid who wishes to live in Camelot must forswear that evil path. Beyond that, their religion and their ways of life are their own.”

Mordred's lifts his gaze.

“I believe Mordred understands that,” Arthur finishes, eyes meeting Mordred’s.

“I do,” the druid answers. “There is nothing I want more than to be a knight of Camelot, and I will do whatever my lord requires of me.”

The Queen shakes her head with a rueful smile. “How do you inspire such devotion, Arthur?”

Arthur grows an inch from the compliment. He is so terribly proud of his men, and so incredibly grateful to have their loyalty. “It is no more than your men show you, my Lady.”

Annis laughs. “My men? My men are still sore after the performance you gave them this morning. Sir Breunor is thinking of retiring out of shame.”

For a moment, Arthur doesn't know whether she means shame at Arthur's behaviour or Sir Breunor's own loss. When he doesn't reply, the Queen continues, “I told him he should have expected no less from you.”

Because Arthur is a great fighter, or because after last night they expect him to act like a lunatic?

Thankfully, Annis is not expecting an answer. “Speaking of devotion,” she says, looking around. “Where is Merlin this morning? Used to be you couldn't even sneak into an enemy camp without him stumbling in at your heels.”

The knot inside Arthur tightens, reminding him of its existence. He opens his mouth to tell the Queen that Merlin is no longer in Arthur's employ, but he cannot speak. It is as if he has been robbed of his voice. Merlin has been Arthur's servant and constant companion for years, and if Arthur acknowledges the end of those years out loud, then his whole world will shatter like glass, he is sure of it. No other man will ever show him loyalty as unconditional, faith as blinded and devotion as strong. No one can replace Merlin.

For one terrifying moment, Arthur slips up and sees the years stretch on ahead, sees himself living without Merlin by his side, and it is too much to bear.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “... I don’t know.”

In the courtyard, far below the Queen’s window, two portcullises come down with a crash, only for a violent explosion to tear them from their support structure. They fall slowly and hit the ground with bangs loud enough to rattle bones.


	8. Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is made to confront his own beliefs, and Merlin leaves Caerleon.

The Queen throws open her window, but doesn’t linger beyond the first glance, gathering her skirts and running for the door. Arthur is next, and looks down to see a circle of guards closing in on two people on horseback, one an old man, the other a young woman. The horses stamp uneasily as the ring of spears grows smaller around them.

Arthur follows the Queen, and catches up with her quickly. “Who was that?” he asks breathlessly, while they run.

“We will know in a moment,” she replies, but there is something purposeful and distressed in her expression that tells Arthur she knows more than she says. Mordred is soon on their heels.

The three of them emerge into the bleak day to find most of the assembled soldiers groaning on the ground, but a handful still stand, and hold the old man and woman at bay. Arthur runs forward, drawing his sword, the old man looks over his shoulder, and Arthur stops short as he recognises Dragoon the Great. No longer dressed in a shabby, red robe, the sorcerer would look regal in blue, except his hair and eyes are wilder than ever.

“Stay out of this, Arthur!” the sorcerer shouts, but is quickly distracted by a soldier lunging at his blind spot. The horse jumps back, neighing in fear, Dragoon thrusts out a hand, and the soldier’s spear splinters, clattering to the ground.

“Stand down!” Queen Annis strides past Arthur to stand tall before Dragoon. “Enough! I demand to know who you are, and where you think you are taking my prisoners.”

Arthur’s eyes shift to Dragoon’s companion, only to be astonished at the sight of a little girl, ten years old at the most, sitting in the saddle in front of the woman. They resemble each other greatly, both red haired, with large, dark eyes, but even unwashed, undernourished and covered in dirt, the mother is clearly beautiful, while the child is not. Her forehead is bumpy, her nose crooked, and her hands misshapen. It is not a natural deformity, however, but the result of violence, committed long ago. Arthur’s stomach turns.

Dragoon sneers down at the Queen. “Did you think yourself just and merciful, when you ordered the torch to give light to their cell? Did you think a little extra hay and a little extra food would make their prison less confining, less cold? Were you proud to have saved your people from the witch?” His hand sweeps out, and Arthur looks again to the woman, but it is the child who hunkers down as if to hide, while the woman places protective hands on her daughter’s shoulders.

More people are gathering, coming from the castle, from the grounds, even from the town outside. More soldiers surround the sorcerer and the women. Arthur notices how reluctant Annis is to look at the two she called her prisoners.

“Two men died,” the Queen says. “The fire nearly destroyed a whole village. We have the witch’s own word that she started the fire.”

“Her name is Leena!” Dragoon shouts furiously. “And it was an accident. Sometimes, a sword slips and someone is hurt. Leena was provoked, and her gift slipped from her grasp, and you put her in a cell, to languish with the rats! You put her in a cell next to wanton murderers!”

“Sorcery is banned in Caerleon,” the Queen says. “The girl used sorcery.” She turns to the woman. “You should have left Caerleon when you had the chance.”

Arthur sees it before Annis, the storm that builds, suddenly and violently, in Dragoon. The old man’s eyes blaze gold, he roars like an animal, like a dragon, and Arthur is just in time to dart in front of Annis before the spell comes flying at her. He is thrown backwards and the impact with the ground is like a sledge hammer to his back.

“Arthur!” The Queen is at his side quickly, and helps him to his feet. Arthur holds out a hand to calm his own knights in the crowd, as they have drawn their swords and look ready to commit murder. Only Mordred is standing back, eyes wide on the old sorcerer.

“Monster!” Dragoon’s voice rumbles like thunder. “You would rather execute innocent people than make laws to govern magic! You banish and burn the unknown, because facing it would require bravery! Cowards!”

Arthur takes a step forward, struggling to breathe through the ache. “Queen Annis banned magic in a show of sympathy with Camelot. You can direct your fury at me.”

For a long moment, Dragoon looks down at Arthur, his chest rising and falling with agitated breaths, but slowly, he calms, and the storm slips from his brow. “They sing songs of you, Arthur Pendragon. Seers mumble your name in their prophecies. Even the Great Dragon promised me that Albion would be reborn under your kingship, to a place of peace and freedom. Magic would return to the land, they said, the prophets and the seers and the minstrels. But it’s been years, and I am not free.” 

Arthur feels the burden of his kingdom grow heavier with the expectations of a vast island full of peoples, and he rolls his shoulders to shrug it off. He cannot take on any more! Not now that he has driven away the man who carried the burden with him.

“My father and mother were taken from me by magic. I do not owe your kind anything.”

“I tried to save your father! You can ask your royal physician, he will tell you about the pendant he found on Uther, enchanted to reverse my healing spell. Why would I kill a dying man, when I could have proved to you once and for all that magic can be used for good?” 

“So it wasn’t you. It was magic nonetheless.”

“No, no, no! That’s not ... You don’t know ...”

At a subtle sign from Queen Annis, soldiers once again advance on all sides. The woman on the horse whimpers, her daughter clings to her, and Dragoon looks around in distress. When his eyes land on Arthur again, there is desperation in them. The sorcerer holds out a hand.

_“Geedcíege sæsteorra brádhanda mín.”_

Arthur lifts Excalibur, prepares himself ... and lowers the sword again.

In the palm of Dragoon’s hand lies a familiar-looking orb of glass, filled with wisps of white and blue light that drift in circles like mist. The horses neigh and toss their heads, unnerved by the electric aura of magic in the air.

“What is that?” Queen Annis asks.

Arthur stares, mesmerised. The simple gesture holds a wealth of meaning that utterly transforms the man before him. The man who appeared out of nowhere to shift the blame when Gwen was accused of enchanting Arthur. The man who led Arthur out of the cave. Arthur’s guardian angel.

“Who are you?”

The sorcerer’s eyes flicker over the crowd, dart to the women beside him, and then back to Arthur.

“... Emrys,” he says finally, and bows his head like a shy boy, cradling the orb of light to his chest.

“I thought Emrys was merely a legend,” Queen Annis says.

“He is that,” Dragoon ... Emrys, replies. “But he is also me.”

Arthur is dizzy again. He looks at the women, at the girl’s ruined face, her broken fingers, her averted eyes. He can fear her, but he cannot but think that her fury would be righteous. How she must have suffered, all because she was born with that curse ... that gift?

When he opens his mouth, he doesn’t know what he is going to say before he says it, but he feels his heart throbbing, expanding to encompass a new horizon. “Where do you intend to take the child ... take Leena? If she has magic she cannot control, then she is a danger to herself as well as others. She will need help.”

The ball of light fades from Emrys’ hand. “There is my king,” he says, and the tone is so intimate and so proud, that Arthur almost blushes. The old man reaches out and places his gnarled hand on Leena’s little one. “I will take her and Enid to Essetir, where the druids can teach Leena how to use her gift for good.”

“Then you will have to ride through Camelot.” Arthur frowns. “I will not tolerate you using magic there.”

Emrys throws up his hands. “I can no more stop using magic than you can lay down that sword! And how else is a frail old man supposed to catch dinner for three?”

“So that’s it?” Queen Annis interjects sarcastically. She has one hand on her hip and looks like she can’t decide whether to laugh or chop someone’s head off, possibly Arthur’s. “Did he hypnotise you with that ball of light or is the King of Camelot so easily persuaded against his own views? You’re going to let him go, just like that.”

“I’m not letting him go anywhere,” Arthur replies. “My whole army couldn’t let him do anything. I’m trying to negotiate.”

“Oh, I see,” the Queen says mockingly. “And with what leverage are you negotiating? I’m surprised we’re still talking, and our legendary sorcerer hasn’t simply taken off.”

She has a point, and Arthur looks back up at Emrys curiously. He is surprised to see the pain in the old man’s eyes.

“I am going,” Emrys says, very quietly. “You are right, I have nothing to linger for.”

Then there are shouts and the slap, slap, slaps of hurrying feet, as two guards come running out of the castle.

“My Queen, my Queen!”

“Your Majesty!”

“There's been a murder!”

“Several murders!”

They reach the Queen and bend close, whispering urgently to her. Arthur can't hear what is being said, until Queen Annis shouts “What?” and turns a look on Emrys that could make a dragon cower.

“So, you are judge and executioner in one,” she says, tone dangerously composed. “You demand we rule by law, but flaunt the law when it has been laid down.”

Emrys’ eyes widen.

“What's happened?” Arthur asks.

Annis smiles with no mirth and a great deal of steel. “Ragnor is dead, along with his men. Slaughtered in their cell, like rabbits in the trap.”

Shock ripples through Arthur, and he looks up at Emrys, eager to read on his face any knowledge of that night, because surely that must be why he ... but how could he know, and why would he protect Arthur once again? Why does he care still about a King who has only disappointed his hopes?

“Well, Emrys?” Annis asks. “Do you deny that you murdered my prisoners?”

The old man shakes his head, swallowing like he feels sick. “No, Your Majesty.”

The Queen laughs. “Oh, now it's “your majesty”. Looks like the great Emrys writhes in the dust with the rest of us. Tell me, before you ride away to Essetir, why did Ragnor have to die, when sunrise would have seen him hanged anyway? How do you justify depriving my people of their satisfaction?”

The courtyard is holding its collective breath, waiting for the answer.

Emrys seems to be caught in some inner struggle, his brow furrowed and his eyes pained again. Increasingly, the pain takes over. Abruptly, he scowls. “What can I say?” he says, face comically scrunched up and voice dripping with disdain. “One of them insulted my beard, another looked at me funny. I'm sensitive, you know. Not like you're going to miss them, is it?”

Arthur realises then that the cantankerous old man is an act, a mask that protects someone who is alone, and vulnerable, and full of secrets.

The look on Queen Annis' face is actually pretty funny; having never met Emrys before, she is completely taken aback by the abrupt shift in tone.

“Now if you don't mind, we'll be off,” the old man continues. “If you know what's good for you, you won't get in our way.” He growls menacingly at the soldiers that stand between him and the gate, and he cackles when they scramble out of the way.

There is something like frustration in the hand he throws out towards the gates. _“Ísene gatu gecrymaþ!”_

The two portcullises crumble into dust, clearing the way for the horses. Arthur and Annis quickly remove themselves from the path. Arthur catches Leena’s fearful eyes for just a moment, and he wonders what will become of her.

_“Swifte ærnaþ!”_

The horses take off at a gallop. A single glance back is all Emrys gives, but in it, Arthur sees a different man, and he thinks to himself, like he has before, that those eyes are terribly familiar.


	9. They will fall like leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their way to Essetir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week, we have symbolism!

Lady Guinevere’s forest is succumbing to winter. Soon, there will be snow. The ground is bare and hard, as most of the leaves still cling to their branches, their grip tenuous but stubborn. As if on fire, the canopy stretches bright red in every direction, not a green or brown leaf to be seen.

But everywhere, mistletoe is encroaching on the trees, creeping across the ground and climbing, climbing to reach the heatless sun. The white berries grow in large clusters, their juicy stems twisting, their dark leaves drooping.

As the mistletoe chokes trunks and eats its way across branches, it dislodges the barely-clinging leaves, making them drift to the ground. The frozen earth welcomes them, and in time, snow will cover them all.

Merlin, Enid and Leena ride in silence, while scarlet leaves fall about them like a slow rain.

“What does it mean?” Leena asks, the first words she has spoken since Merlin met her.

“You feel it too,” he says. “The magic.” Magic has always infused the world for Merlin, but in this place it thrums with active significance.

“This is not a good thing,” Leena says, looking up at the trees, and Merlin feels in his old bones that she is right.


	10. Into the silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the King returns home, his closest friends find him a wounded and bitter man, but Guinevere has no intention of letting him shut himself off.

Several days ago, messengers had come from Caerleon to tell the court at Camelot of King Arthur’s success, and to let them know when to expect him home. The streets of the town had been swept of sludge and leaves, in the citadel they had prepared for celebration, and on the expected day, the people of Camelot had gotten dressed in their finest, and eagerly awaited the sound of trumpets that would herald their King’s return. But evening had fallen, and there had been no trumpets.

The sense of expectancy pervaded through the night and into the morning, however, and so, when the trumpets finally sounded, clear as angelic voices in the cold, grey afternoon, the streets of Camelot were quickly filled with people.

Guinevere joins her brother, Sir Leon and Gaius on the steps outside the citadel. They are all giddy with relief, though in the two knights, the feeling is mingled with a certain shame at having left their commander behind on the battlefield. Gwen can’t but laugh at their shamed little-boy faces and shuffling feet.

It’s going to be good to have all the knights home again. While the men of the royal council have long since understood that “Lady Guinevere” is the voice of the King in the King’s absence, they continue to make her fight for every change she needs them to make. Arthur’s decision to make her a lady, not through marriage, but through the gift of land, continues to be his most controversial act as King, and most of the council, being originally of Uther’s reign, are still struggling to digest it.

So it is with the knights that Gwen has found true fellowship, as well as with the people, who share her joy today.

It seems the whole city has come out to greet the returning King; the streets are packed all the way down to the great gates outside the lower town. The sky is clouded, but nothing can dampen the elation that thrums through Camelot. Long before the riders reach the citadel, their approach can be tracked through the city by the noise of the crowd, which rises to a wild pitch when the King and his knights go past. When the first horses come through the archway into the courtyard, the cheers are deafening. Arthur rides tall and proud at the head of the train. The crowd is so dense here that soldiers have to be scrambled to force a path that will let the riders through.

As they come closer, Gwen can hear the knights singing.

“Blow trumpet, though the world grows white with snow;  
Blow trumpet, there are no more miles to go.  
Blow through the living world-‘The King is home again.’”

“Shall witch or Saxon rule in Arthur's realm?  
Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe upon helm,  
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand! Let the King reign.”

“Here is our Sun, still mighty in his May.  
Home is our golden King. Though dark the day,  
blow trumpet and pour the wine! Let the King reign!”

Then, in the midst of her joy, Guinevere senses a strain in the knights’ voices. Sir Gwaine rides behind the King with darkened brow and bent head, nor is he singing, which is unlike him. Gwen looks more closely at Arthur, and his straight back seems all at once to be a shield against the men riding behind him, rather than a mark of pride or youth.

“That is not the King’s mail,” Leon remarks quietly. “It is too narrow in the shoulders.” They share a look. The missing chainmail bothers him, and though she doesn’t understand why, Gwen understands that they are reacting to the same thing.

Quickly she scans the line of men. There is Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival, Sir Bedivere and Sir Pelliam, Sir Algovale and Sir Dors, and more are coming. There have been losses, but Arthur has lost soldiers before, so what else can be weighing him down?

Tyr Seward is waiting for the King at the bottom of the stairs, ready to take his horse away. For the past couple of years, Tyr has been stable hand to the King, a duty that Gwen knows Merlin was more than happy to-

Gwen’s hands fly to her mouth. “Where is Merlin?”

Arthur dismounts and hands the reigns to Tyr. The young man’s greeting is answered with a brief, cold nod, and then the King is ascending the stairs. From the courtyard, people call out to him, hoping for some words, a wave of his hand, a smile, anything at all.

Arthur’s expression is closed, his eyes dull.

Gwen struggles to breathe, a painful lump forming in her throat, pressure rising behind her eyes. Please God, don’t let it be.

Arthur climbs until he stands before Gaius, but the words out of his mouth are not the ones Gwen expects.

“Is he here?”

After a moment, Gaius inclines his head.

Arthur sways, and has to take a step back down to catch himself. Then his jaw sets. “We lost a full day searching for him. I think it is only fair, as compensation to my men, that he spend the next week in the stocks, so they’ll know he will stay put.”

“The days grow cold, my lord,” Gaius says, his face stern. At this time of year, the stocks are rarely used, and certainly not for so long a period.

Arthur walks past the old physician without replying.

“Arthur!” Gwen cries after him, and he stops, turns to her. She sees him struggle to dredge up some semblance of a smile.

“My lady. I trust you have done well for Camelot while I was gone.” It frightens her to hear his tone. He has brought something home with him that she doesn’t understand.

She curtseys. “The days have passed like they are wont to. It is good to have you home again.”

It softens him, like a ray of sun might cause a bank of snow to sink.

“Thank you, Guinevere.”

He goes to the top of the stairs, Gwen and the knights following, and there, somehow hidden in plain sight, stands George.

He bows. “My lord.”

Arthur stops and hesitates as if he doesn’t recognise the creature before him, but then his shoulders droop. “It is to be you, then?”

It looks like pride and anticipation might cause George to float off the ground at any moment. “I was requested especially, Sire.”

Arthur’s left hand, hidden from George, tightens into a fist, but to the man’s face, Arthur shows only resignation. “I am pleased. Lead the way.”

George bows again and walks on ahead. This time, Gwen, Elyan and Leon do not follow. They watch their King reclaim his castle like a donkey going to the millwheel. The noise of the crowd sounds in Gwen’s ears like a chaotic clamour. Something is dreadfully wrong.

Elyan turns back and catches Gwaine coming up the stairs. “You have some serious explaining to do.”

Gwaine begs a moment to wash up after the journey first, and so they decide to meet in Guinevere’s chambers in an hour. Elyan will be out training the new recruits by then, but he makes Percival promise to give him a detailed account of the journey later.

When the hour is up, Gwaine and Percival join Leon, Guinevere and Gaius in Guinevere’s rooms. The men stand around a little awkwardly until Gwen gives them leave to sit. Gwaine makes himself comfortable on the windowsill, Percival flops on the floor next to him with his back to the wall, and Guinevere sits on her bed, leaving her two chairs to the remaining men.

“Start at the beginning.”

The beginning is the story of Percival and Gwaine’s captivity. Percival narrates, with Gwaine adding the occasional more or less constructive comment. After a brief description of dark days and darker nights, endless toil and furtive whispers, they come to the rescue mounted by Arthur and Merlin, and to Mordred’s unexpected changing of sides. Gwen marvels to hear that the druid boy is back in Camelot, and as a potential knight nonetheless. She tries to recall him from the stairs earlier, but cannot. He will, of course, be much changed.

Gwaine speaks briefly of the journey out of Ismere, of Merlin’s strange silence and Arthur’s averted eyes, neither of which changed when they arrived in Caerleon. The stay in Caerleon is also laid out in full, from the scene in the bathhouse, to the disastrous feast, to Arthur’s madness on the training field, and the appearance of the sorcerer.

“It was only as we were leaving the morning after that we understood that Merlin was gone,” Percival says eventually. “Arthur called off our departure and sent us all out to look. We combed the citadel, and the country for miles around, but we couldn’t find him.”

“The search continued as we rode West,” Gwaine continues. “Arthur dispatched search parties left and right, and every time they returned without news he seemed to turn a little more to stone.” He turns to Gaius with lowered brows. “And then we come home to find that Merlin is already here. He couldn’t have left a note at least? Told _someone_ he was leaving? It would have saved us a lot of worrying.”

“I’ve half a mind to go down to the stocks tomorrow to make sure he’s properly covered in cabbage,” Percival adds. “We didn’t sleep for fearing he’d been killed or worse.”

“Or worse, indeed,” Gwen says. She too, narrows her eyes at Gaius as if to read his mind, for he looks none too willing to share it. “I know of nothing that could make Merlin leave Arthur like that, no matter that he is inexplicably no longer the King’s servant. Something must have happened to them, to both of them. Do you know what it is?”

Gaius shakes his head. “No, my lady, but I can tell you that Merlin felt he had no choice but to leave, and as for leaving a note, in his state of mind, he could hardly be expected to act rationally.” He sits bent in his chair, a man who has had too many cares, and who as yet sees no end to them. “I have tried to make him tell me what is wrong, but for once he will not confide in me.”

“Confide is the word,” Gwaine says, speaking to himself in a low voice. “Whatever has happened, it is not something that can be told, but something that must be confided.” His eyes refocus on the others. “We can easily guess at what happened. It occurred while they were the captives of Ragnor and his bandits, and as any weathered soldier knows, there is a certain brutal act that threatens prisoners of war.”

“As any woman knows, you mean,” Gwen says bitterly. She has seen too many women, hollow-eyed and lost, after being brutalised by bandits, or by drunken husbands. The men look away, though she is not angry at them.

Leon is nodding slowly as he thinks it over. “It would explain why the knights of Caerleon refused to pass on what they witnessed, even to their Queen; they would consider themselves bound to silence by the bond between knights.”

“It also explains why Arthur has gone touch-shy,” Percival agrees, referring to the nights on the road, where Arthur had accepted the warmth of his fellow-knights as usual, but with a hidden look in his eyes, like their bodies burned him.

Gwen has her knees tucked up to her chest, and her mind is walking in circles from Arthur’s raised shields to Merlin’s absence and back. “But it does not explain everything. I can imagine Arthur protecting himself by pushing Merlin away, but why did Merlin let him? Merlin would not leave Arthur to suffer alone, no matter what he himself had endured.”

“Mordred knows,” Gwaine says, leaning his head against the cold window. “But he is as tight-lipped as the rest of them.”

Already, the shadows are growing long, and the men have their tasks to complete before sundown. There is little more to be said anyway, only further circles of guesswork. Assuming too much is dangerous. Gwen stands. “I will talk to Arthur, see if I can’t reach him.”

“If anyone can, it’s you,” Leon says, with a note of hope.

They bid her a good evening and shuffle off one by one. Gaius lingers last. “Perhaps you ought to talk to Merlin too, my lady. You were always great friends, and though you do not know it, you have been privy to more of his inner life than most, more even than Arthur.”

Gwen is at first too surprised to speak, but after a moment she nods. “Of course. Thank you, Gaius.” She smiles wanly. “At least I know where to find him in the morning.”

Gaius does that thing with his eyebrows that says more than words, and Gwen silently agrees with him: deserved and undeserved punishments aside, at least Merlin is home. As are all her brave knights, the bravest of which Gwen now has to find a way to break, so she can put him back together again.

Arthur is in his chambers, at his desk in the bedroom, with the mountain of reports, letters, and accounts that have accumulated in the time he has been gone. A pleasant fire burns in the hearth in the outer chamber, candles have been lit all around, everything is clean and tidy, spotless even. George lives up to his fearsome reputation. Gwen suspects that Arthur’s retreat into the darkness of his bed area has much to do with wanting to escape poor George. She wonders if the boy knows how unwelcome he is, and if it wounds his secret heart.

Right now, however, it is not George’s heart that needs her, but the heart of the man who is still pretending that he neither heard her knock nor enter.

“Shouldn’t you rest a little, my lord?” she says as she strides through his room.

“Guinevere!”

He affects to be startled, and she raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. After a moment, he colours at his own deception, and clears his throat. “Thank you for your concern, my lady, but I am not tired, and I have quite a bit of catching up to do so ...” He gestures hopefully to the papers, but she lets him have the eyebrow again, until he sighs, puts down his pen and rubs his hands across his face.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve been rude.” He stands and comes to greet her properly, taking her hand in both of his and kissing it. There is something uncertain in his movements, a tension in his fingers where they touch her skin, and a trembling need in the lips that brush her knuckles.

“I have spoken to Sir Gwaine,” she says.

The first crack in his shell appears in the form of a flash of fear in his eyes, but Arthur Pendragon has spent all his life hiding his emotions, and he is quickly smiling.

“Good,” he says. “You must have a full account of our journey, then.”

“Almost,” she replies. She wishes she could make him move over to the bed, sit down where he would be more comfortable, in the dark where it would be easier for him to open up, but she can feel in the rigidness of his body that he would flee at the lightest touch. “There is a gap in the story, one that Gwaine cannot fill.”

The smile becomes stiff. “Can’t be very important then. We entered Ismere, saved our men from Morgana, and came back home, that’s all there was to it. As for the situation in Caerleon, I will speak of it in council tomorrow.”

The room is warm, but Gwen hugs herself nonetheless, frightened by him. “Is that all you have to say?” she asks, and can’t quite sound calm and patient anymore. “At least acknowledge that something came back from Ismere broken.”

Arthur shutters immediately. He goes past her to the window in the outer chamber and faces it with his arms held deliberately behind his back, as if he is struggling to be the King and not her frightened boy.

She does not follow him right away, needing time to compose herself again. “Have you seen your face today? You’re scaring me with that look.”

“Why, do I look beastly?” he asks with a cruel, wry smile that she has never seen him wear before and hopes never to see again. He glances at her, and his expression quickly softens. “Maybe I am simply tired after all,” he continues, more calmly. “There is no look, Guinevere, and no missing part of the story.”

She studies him. “You’re right,” she says slowly, biting her lip with narrowed eyes and new purpose. With a deep breath she begins the crossing to where he stands. “There is no look. What there is, is the absence of a look. I didn’t understand it right away because I have not connected the light in your eyes with Merlin until now.”

It might be the candlelight flickering, either that or the name caused Arthur to shudder. As she draws up behind him, Gwen has an uncomfortable moment where she imagines Morgana in her place, a moment of kinship with the dark woman. Used to be, Morgana’s badgering was the only means of getting through to Arthur, until Merlin came. It scares Gwen, and she has to stop and make an effort not to go to that place. She wants to be the vessel that catches Arthur’s blood, not the spear that makes him bleed.

She chooses her next words carefully, and makes her voice kind and steady. “Years ago that light shone for me, but at the time I did not see it for what it was. It is the cruel trick of love that we do not recognise it until we lose it.”

He turns quickly, his own hurt gone in the face of hers. “Guin-”

She places a finger to his lips before she can stop herself, as for a moment they are who they were; as comfortable with each other as two eggs in a nest. “We made the right choice, you and I. Sending Merlin from your side, however, was a poor choice indeed, and one I cannot understand why you would make.”

“I did not send him away, Gwen,” he says, bowing his head to escape from her again. “I gave him the choice to leave if he wanted to, and he was riding for Camelot not an hour later.” His voice wavers at the end.

“That does not sound like the Merlin I know.” She cups his cheek, daring him not to take comfort from her touch, but he accepts it this time, placing his hand on top of hers and leaning into it. She loves him deeply, her King, her boy.

“I would see the light restored to your eyes,” she says.

He gives her a tired, but genuine smile, and then, just as she thinks she has reached him in his shell, he utterly defeats her.

“Thank you, Gwen,” he says, and his despair hums, naked behind his voice. He steps back, let’s her hand fall. “I need to be alone now ... please.”

Had he railed at her, spat, lied, or wept, she would have endured him, and when he was exhausted, she would have gathered him up and healed him. However, in opening the door voluntarily, he has arrested her hand; to press on would be to do violence to their bond of trust, to their friendship.

She is walking towards the door before she knows that she is doing it, the sure, authoritative timbre of his voice irresistible, but Guinevere is strong too, and she finds the will to turn back one more time. He is looking out of the window, one hand spread on the chilled pane of glass. Through his fingers, the first stars shine.

“Arthur-”

“Trust that I am not suffering any more than I deserve,” he says, giving her what she wants and dismissing her in one breath.

A vessel, she reminds herself, not a spear. She leaves her King to the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As in chapter 2, the original poem is from Alfred Lord Tennyson's _Idylls of the King_ , but this time I have changed the lyrics to fit the situation. This is done with great respect for the author, and no intention of profit.


	11. Endure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin's thoughts run free while his body stands bound.

_“What does the mistletoe mean?”_

_“War, Emrys. War is coming. Do you know of Arthur’s bane?”_

_“Yes. How do I stop it?”_

_“That is still hidden in the future. Beware, Emrys, for the time is close at hand.”_

_“The time for what?”_

_“The time of your reign.”_

As Leena had walked away with the druids, Merlin had felt regret that he had not met her and Enid in a happier time. They had spoken little on their journey, sunk in their own dark thoughts, and so he had barely gotten to know them. The women’s thanks had been heartfelt, though, and when Leena had smiled at him over her shoulder, he had felt that she would come to good. If the world held together long enough for her to heal.

Only an hour ago, Merlin had bent his head to the wood and wondered for one dizzy moment if this was what the executioner’s block would feel like, and then the top half of the stocks had come down and trapped him, and the lock had clicked into place. Now he clings to thoughts of Leena with her quiet, stubborn strength, and memories of Enid singing her daughter to sleep at night. Once these memories have been wrung dry, he considers Iseldir’s words about the coming of Arthur’s bane. Merlin is not the least calmed by the apparent proximity of his own “reign”. He doesn’t want to reign, he wants to serve Arthur. That was his destiny, whatever dragons and druids might say, and now … now the future is a yawning chasm, impenetrable even to the prophetic eye.

It burns Merlin to be here, bent in the stocks like some misbehaved child or petty thief. The problem is not that his punishment is undeserved; he has gone to the stocks for his destiny before, but because for the past few years, Arthur has always reprimanded him in private, and Merlin has treasured it as a mark of respect. He resents this public display of his lord’s displeasure in him, even though the people in the square are mercifully few today. The absence of children wielding vegetables surprises him, though. He thought for sure they’d be here by now.

The wood is unforgiving against his wrists, his neck and back are already aching, and the cold has sunk through the many layers of his clothes, making him shake uncontrollably. It feels like months since the last time he was well-rested, though he knows he felt fine before leaving Camelot a week ago. His thoughts float away from him, his mind sluggish.

_Think of Leena, think of the mistletoe and the vision in the water, think of happier times, think of nothing. Just don’t think of Arthur._

Of course, he can think of nothing else.

Merlin can’t decide when it was he fell in love with Arthur. His feelings run like a stream through the landscape of their relationship, giving life and nourishment to all things around it, and it has no beginning or end. On the other hand, he certainly didn’t love Arthur when they first met, and so he supposes the feeling must have appeared some time later, but the point is, he cannot remember when. His devotion and loyalty, his daily chores, his and Arthur’s arguments and private jokes, their great destiny; all these things come together like a tapestry, and love is the thread that keeps it together. For this reason, Merlin has been able to serve Arthur safely for years without giving himself away. Unlike his magic, his love has been a secret easily kept, because if it shone through, it didn’t matter.

He can, however, easily recall the first time his lust for Arthur made itself known. Arthur had held a joust not long after he was made King, a celebration held mostly so that the invited royalty and nobility could see with their own eyes that Camelot was as strong as ever. It had been a difficult time for Arthur, since Gwen had just recently returned, and the two of them had made the choice not to rekindle their romance. So Merlin had been looking for ways to make his King smile, and on that sunny day, a barrel of water had provided him with the opportunity.

Arthur had been around to all the tents, greeted the competing knights and wished them luck, before promising to personally land them all on their asses. By now, he was hot, sweaty, and complaining about it loudly, to Merlin. In the end, Merlin had fetched a pail, filled it with cold water from the barrel outside the King’s tent, gone back inside, and upended it over Arthur’s head. After a very unmanly shriek, Arthur had caught Merlin and tackled him to the ground, before lifting him up and carrying him to the barrel.

It was then, as Merlin was busy frantically protesting his impending punishment, that a deep breath had filled his mouth and nose with the smell of Arthur. It was hardly the first time, and shouldn’t have been remarkable, and yet it changed everything.

A moment later, Arthur had deposited Merlin, feet first, into the barrel, and Merlin had shrieked in turn, but secretly been glad for the cold bath.

Later, when he had had the time to examine the moment, Merlin had gained a better understanding of his own feelings, which at the time he had known only as a fire in his belly.

His undoing lay in having Arthur’s arms around him, being crushed to that strong chest and feeling their hearts beating as one. It lay in hearing Arthur laugh and knowing he made it happen. It lay in the excitement of being so powerful, and yet helpless against Arthur's will, not because Merlin had to hide his magic, but because he would have submitted anyway.

Unlike his love, Merlin’s lust would not let itself be integrated into his existing relationship with Arthur, and once it had reared its ugly head, it was all he could do to keep it at bay.

But oh, the reality of Ismere had far surpassed his secret fantasies, for all that there had been no sensation but the solidity of their bodies, no skin but Arthur’s cheek against his cheek, no smells in the icy air, only their soft breathing growing urgent as their bodies did what bodies like to do.

Except, in his fantasies, Arthur had wanted it as much as Merlin.

Merlin can’t feel his nose anymore.

That’s when he hears Gwen coming. He knows the tinkling sound of the silver bells at the throat of her fur lined cloak. They sound like the coming of hope, he thinks. “My lady,” he greets her, when she comes into his field of vision.

She mock-frowns at him. “My friends call me Gwen.”

He snorts. “That's prettier than what my friends are calling me right now.”

Gwen tilts her head in confusion and reminds him with the familiar gesture that neither land, money nor politics have truly changed her. “What do you mean?” she asks.

Merlin feels a sudden need to have her touch, on his hands or face, anywhere. He needs to feel her steady affection flowing through him like blood. When her world crumbled, she carried on with remarkable determination. He hopes he can do the same.

He swallows down his need and waves his hand towards the other side of the square. “See Sir Aglovale and Sir Pelliam over there? They've been here as long as I have. At first I thought they were enjoying the spectacle, but now I'm not so sure. Watching to see I don't escape, maybe?”

Gwen smiles fondly and shakes her head. “Do you remember the winter just after Arthur was made Crown Prince, when old Klep Ashwood was put in the stocks for yelling at the soldiers in the courtyard? He was drunken.”

“He'd just lost his wife,” Merlin says slowly, recalling the incident. “They should have put him to bed, not in the stocks.”

“And do you remember how Arthur and Morgana spent all day having a snowball fight in this very square, while Klep served his sentence?”

Merlin nods. He understands her now. “They kept people at bay, just by being here. They made sure Klep was left alone.”

It had been Arthur and Morgana’s private rebellion against Uther’s sentence. A small, but significant gesture.

Gwen smiles. “Exactly.” Still smiling, she begins to undo her cloak.

“Gwen, what are you doing?”

She doesn't reply, going around him and swinging her cloak over his back. It covers him like a warm blanket, and he nearly groans with relief.

“You'll be cold,” he protests, though selfishly hoping that she won't reconsider.

“Not as cold as you,” she counters. “Besides, they’ll be coming to let you out in a moment.”

She is correct, as only a few minutes later, someone shows up with the key. Merlin stands up slowly, groaning in pain. Gwen tugs the cloak closer about his shoulders and rubs his arms briskly, making the little bells ring wildly.

At the corner of his eye, Merlin catches the two knights leaving. Did they really stand there for two hours just to save Merlin from vegetables? He feels warmer at the thought.

“I have spoken to Gwaine and Percival, to Gaius and to Arthur,” Gwen said, her eyes on her hands as she needlessly adjusts the edges of the cloak.

“And now it’s my turn?” Merlin asks. He can tell from her quiet frustration that she has learned nothing.

She looks up at him with the intention of saying yes, he can tell, but she stops herself, and perhaps she sees just how tired he is, because she ends up shaking her head. “We can talk later. You need sleep.”

He smiles thankfully. “Will you walk me home, my lady?”

“Alright.”

He drapes the edge of the cloak over her shoulder, along with his arm, so that they are both warm and walking close. She puts her arm around his waist, somehow keeping him up with that simple touch alone.

All the way to Gaius’ door, Merlin longs to confess everything to Gwen, but he doesn’t, and they part outside the physician’s chambers.

“I’ll see you later,” she says.

“I’ll be in the stocks,” he replies.

She walks away, and takes the hopeful silver bells with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write this verse for the weekly Camelot Drabble Challenge on livejournal. Just thought I'd point it out to explain the short and sometimes episodic chapters.
> 
> Secondly, I want to state for the record that I encourage critique. My regular beta is merciless, so don't be afraid to tell me exactly what you think. Typos, inconsistencies, anything that bugs you, please let me know. An extra thank you goes out to those of you who have already given me crit. I am in your debt.


	12. Not carved from stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Gwaine finish what they began in Caerleon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of delicious critique has come my way since the last chapter was posted; thank you all for that and keep it coming. On the other hand, I am getting a whole new appreciation for straight-up positive comments. It's like being groomed compared to being cuddled. A cat needs both, so that she may write good fanfiction.
> 
> Because, you know, cats do that.

When Arthur looks around, he feels like he is a part of a moving carving or tapestry. Torchlight creates bronze out of the skin on Percival's arms and neck, Gwaine's hair becomes satin, and Mordred's eyes shine like pale jewels, set in ivory. With blood rushing in his ears, Arthur can barely hear the sharp thump of quarterstaffs meeting, even though the sound echoes in the long, low room, but he can feel in his bones the way each impact against his own staff jars against the flow of his movements.

Mordred is a white, hungry flame; each fall, each bruise stoking his will to rise, and rise again. Arthur couldn't ask for a better pupil. He has taken Mordred away into a corner, and though he absolutely meant to give each knight-in-training equal attention, he has not called on anyone else for the past hour.

Elyan and Leon are in charge of the Fall recruits, being the two knights that best master the basics of combat, but only Elyan is here today. Like an ebony statue come to life, he goes through stance after stance with the staff, his movements focused and precise. The recruits watch him, restless and eager to join him in the dance, their limbs twitchy but their eyes admiring.

Arthur slams into Mordred and sends him sprawling onto one of the straw mattresses that cover the floor. For a moment, the boy is simply heaving for breath, sweat glittering on his upper lip, but then he's rolling over and using the wall to drag himself up. Arthur breathes through his nose, palms his staff and waits. The thrill makes him dizzy.

The moment is shattered as Gwaine appears between them, reaching out to help Mordred stand on his own.

“Time for a break, I think? We don't want to kill our best recruit before his first campaign,” he says cheerfully, and Mordred goes red with delight, and smiles like a little boy.

Arthur has had just about enough of Gwaine making free. Since their fight in Caerleon, the knight has begun acting more and more like Arthur's equal, making decisions and challenging Arthur's orders.

“Was Percival winning?” Arthur asks, tone light and mean. He can't seem to break his stance, still ready for an attack, because everything is an assault to him now, every sight, every smell. Only within the tapestry, where he is nothing but woven surface, can he breathe free of the knot in his stomach. The tight ball of guilt.

“It's just sparring,” Gwaine replies.

“I was though. I was winning,” Percival calls from where he is engaging Sir Erec.

Gwaine throws him a childish grimace, before clapping Mordred on the shoulder. “Off you go. Drink some water. Catch your breath. You're doing great.”

Arthur bites down hard on an urge to order Mordred to stay, because it is beneath him to react to Gwaine’s baiting. And they _have_ been going at it for too long, and Mordred _does_ need to sit down before he passes out, but Gwaine's insubordination is still unbearable.

Only once Mordred has disappeared between the pillars, heading for the benches across the room, does Arthur relax. He makes himself lower his shoulders and place the tip of the quarterstaff on the floor.

“You look like you could need a break too,” Gwaine says, carefully kind. He half extends a hand, and Arthur wants to fall into that gesture of comfort, into the oblivion of grief and healing that comes with confessing, with breaking, but he cannot break. So he looks coolly from Gwaine's hand to his eyes, and makes no move to accept the offer.

“This is your warning, Sir Gwaine,” he says, lowering his voice so only Gwaine can hear him. “The only one you are going to get. Stand down, or I will put you down.”

Gwaine lets his hand fall, nostrils flaring, frustration clear in every line of his expressive face.

A gust of wind makes Arthur’s sweat-dampened shirt grow cold where it clings to his skin, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise. George is standing in the doorway across the room, dispassionate eyes darting between the pillars in search for Arthur.

“Here comes your new manservant,” Gwaine says, and the accusation is barely even veiled, causing a roar to build, unstoppable in Arthur’s throat.

“There you are, my Lord,” George says, and Arthur bites down on the sound about to emerge from his mouth, bites so hard his lip splits and blood seeps into his mouth.

Exhausted, Arthur makes himself face his servant. “Yes, George, here I am.”

George’s tone makes Arthur feel like he is five years old. “I thought you might like to know that Princess Elena, Sir Caradoc and Lady Brangaine are arriving as expected.”

“That’s great,” Arthur says automatically. It’s all a play, really. Arthur knew they would be arriving at this hour, George knows that Arthur knew, and he knows that Arthur is here specifically to avoid having to greet them. Right now, they are just more people he needs to convince that he is fine.

It takes a clever man to come up with so many jokes about brass, and George is a cleverer man than Arthur ever gave him credit for. He doesn’t say a word of reprimand, but makes Arthur feel ashamed of himself simply by playing along in Arthur’s little charade. George stands there with his hands on his back, watching Arthur with a mildly expectant expression, and Arthur caves.

“I’d better go upstairs to welcome them,” he says.

George’s expression doesn’t change, but somehow he manages to radiate approval and satisfaction nonetheless. “Sir Leon and Lady Guinevere were gracious enough to agree to meet your guests in the courtyard. You might still catch them, if you hurry. I have brought clothes.”

Of course he has. Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if George has also brought a five-course meal, a group of French minstrels, and every single ball of yarn in Camelot.

“Come on, then. Get me ready.” Arthur leans his staff against the wall and walks towards the door with heavy steps.

But Gwaine is still feeling confrontational. “Say hello to Merlin while you’re out there,” he calls after Arthur. “He’s so lonely in the market square. Might do him good to know that his friend remembers him.”

Red rage crashes through Arthur, and for a moment he is a storm. Then Percival and Elyan are dragging him away from Gwaine, who is lying on the floor clutching his bloody nose.

“HOW DARE YOU?” Arthur roars. The room is spinning, and this is Caerleon again; their standoff continued as if it was never interrupted. The tapestry has frozen, the characters still and pale in shock, with Arthur as the twisting centrepiece.

Gwaine gets up awkwardly. He wipes at his nose, sniffs. The taste of blood is in both their mouths now. “He’s learned to dress warmly,” the knight says calmly, as if he wasn’t just punched in the face. “But you know it doesn't matter how many layers you put on when you have to stand still for hours at the time. His teeth rattle so we can hear it across the square.”

Finally, Percival and Elyan have to let go because Arthur is about to twist his own arms out of their sockets. Percival immediately puts himself between Arthur and Gwaine. He’s wearing that gentle, understanding expression he does so well, and it makes Arthur want to sock him in the face too.

“The law is the law!” Arthur yells. “A servant caused the King of Camelot a full day's delay on his journey, keeping wounded men from their physician, and waiting families in the dark. Not even bloody Merlin gets away with that, no matter why he did it! There is not one law for him and one for everyone else, and there is not a special law for me, so into the stocks he goes, because my only other choice was to have him flogged.”

“That,” Elyan says quietly. “Is the first time you have said Merlin’s name since you came home.”

In Arthur’s heart, Love pulls the two syllables close and cradles them. The sound they make together is precious, full of meaning. To speak them is to remember all the moments that make up who Arthur has become, because Merlin made Arthur: the King and the man. Arthur the King dares speak the name, but Arthur the man is blackened, and has forfeited his right to it.

He tries to recall the sound from his own lips, but it happened too fast.

Gwaine pushes Percival aside with a hand on his shoulder. He takes a step forward and goes down on one knee. “Forgive me, Sire. I am only a man with a sword, who used to believe in nothing and accept no master but myself. Then I met a Prince who gave me an ideal to strive for, and I gave him my heart. Now my heart breaks because I cannot recognise him anymore.” He takes Arthur’s hand and kisses it. “I am a knight of Camelot, and King Arthur’s man, but are you him? Are you the man I pledged myself to?”

Arthur remembers the weight of Merlin in his lap, remembers Merlin jerking, twisting his hips like he was in pain, trembling like he couldn’t stand it, responding like he couldn’t help it. He remembers how impossible it was to catch Merlin’s eyes the next day, how they kept glancing off each other like meeting swords, scraping each other raw. Later, when stupid, reckless, courageous Merlin wanted to chase after the dragon, Arthur had unthinkingly pressed his hand to Merlin’s stomach, and Merlin’s hips had risen automatically even while his eyes widened in fear.

Arthur caused that.

“Come, George,” he says, and leaves Gwaine kneeling on the floor, bereft.


	13. Falling for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin muses, shivers, falls and is unexpectedly rescued.

Merlin goes idle for four days, spending his mornings on the window sill in Gaius’ workroom, then two hours in the stocks, and most of the evening in his room. Gaius’ endless questions have fallen silent, now that Leena’s story has been told to him in full and it is clear that Merlin does not want to talk anymore about the future or the past. It snows overnight, and the next day it melts, and then it freezes again and more snow falls on top of it, and keeps falling and falling. Merlin watches the world disappear in white through the window.

On the fifth day, Gaius approaches Merlin where he sits on the sill. Merlin turns to receive him, waiting with resigned patience for his mentor to try to draw him out of his shell again.

“Merlin, it’s time you got back to work,” Gaius says instead.

“Doing what?” Merlin asks, partly curious and partly daring Gaius to suggest he try to get his old job back.

“I thought you could start helping me full time. You’ve become a skilled physician, Merlin, and I could use the assistance.”

Merlin’s bones protest that this is not what he was born to do, but after a moment and another breath, he feels relief. Something to do. Something useful. As Gaius’ assistant, he can help people.

“Alright,” he says.

It is only as Gaius’ face relaxes into a small smile that Merlin realises he hasn’t seen his mentor happy or relaxed since he came home. Eager to extend this rare moment, he climbs down from the windowsill and stands ready before Gaius, matching his smile.

He spreads his hands. “When do I start?”

Gaius pretends to look thoughtful. “Well, I was going to mix some potions before dinner, but I suppose I can wait until after, when you’ve come back from the stocks.”

Merlin’s smile grows flat. “Thank you.”

“And speaking of, you’d better get dressed; they’ll be expecting you.”

Merlin drags his feet to his room to put on all his clothes and some of Gaius’ too, but with the prospect of busy days ahead of him, he feels a little bit better.

It snows some more while he’s in the stocks, and he amuses himself by looking for identical snowflakes among the ones that land on the chains of his manacles, until the wind grows too strong and he has to bow his head and close his eyes against it. As the second hour inches to a close, he begins to wait for Guinevere, but she doesn’t appear. He is released from the stocks, and stands violently shivering and a little offended, squinting through the whirling snow for a glimpse of her blue cloak. Eventually, though, there is nothing to do but to go home.

Once he gets to the courtyard, however, Guinevere’s absence is explained. The place is full of people on horseback, and Gwen is there with Sir Leon, waiting patiently as more and more people pour in through the archway. Merlin stops at a corner and watches, leaning against the wall with his fingers tucked in his armpits and his toes curling in his boots.

Every year, just before the roads are blocked by snow, nobility and royalty from far and wide come riding into Camelot, drawn by the bright fires and festive halls of the citadel. For the remainder of winter, they will stroll through the castle like a congregation of exotic birds, splendidly attired and red-cheeked from an abundance of wine and merry-making. There are lords past their prime, young ladies and their aging mothers, and princes looking to woo or play or learn from Albion’s mightiest court. Each family brings its own servants, so below stairs becomes crowded, and a hotbed of intrigue and gossip as bad as any lady’s chamber.

Merlin has a vague memory of passing his first December in Camelot in a constant state of awe. He’d never seen so many highborn people before, nor such opulence, be it in the food on King Uther’s table or the jewels that glittered on the breasts of the ladies. Then he had passed into a state of terror as he’d realised just how many different types of danger Arthur was in in this new environment. Not only was the swollen crowd easier to infiltrate, but there were at least half a dozen old crones with half a dozen daughters each that all wanted to be the future Queen of Camelot.

It had been an eventful Christmas, that was for sure.

Now, as he watches history repeat itself, he is reminded more than anything of the fact that time has passed. He is not a boy anymore. The same trains of horses and wagons roll into the courtyard, but Sir Caradoc’s hair is grey and his banner faded, Lady Brangaine has married off all her daughters but one, and Princess Elena has two-year-old Galahad sitting before her in the saddle.

Merlin watches as boys in red livery come running from the stables to take care of the horses.

Elena hands Galahad down into Leon’s waiting arms, before easily swinging herself out of the saddle and jumping down. A moment later, she and Gwen are embracing.

Leon is lifting Galahad high into the air, saying something that Merlin can’t hear. The little boy sucks thoughtfully on his mitten, his eyes wide and solemn. Leon gives the child back to its mother, and Gwen leans in close to shake his little mitten-covered hand, saying hello.

Merlin wishes he was as carefree as they are. He feels hollow from loss, terrified of the future, and overwhelmed by the weight of his responsibilities, and since none of his friends could possibly understand, he is alone.

The silent tableau of colourful people in whirling snow seems to exist in a world apart from him, a world where time has hurtled forwards, until it has left him behind. Ten years ago, Merlin was given a destiny. Three years ago, Uther’s death removed his last excuse to put off fulfilling it. He has lost Balinor, Freya, Lancelot, Will, Aithusa and Morgana, and those are just the people he loved. Three years, Arthur has reigned in Camelot, and they have been good years. So good, so happy, in fact, that Merlin forgot all about the people who were waiting for him to save them.

He won’t forget them again. No more dead knights, blue with frost because Merlin did not warm them. No more haunted children hiding their true selves from the world because Merlin has not freed them.

But what is he supposed to do? If he ever had Arthur’s ear, he has lost it now.

He looks up at the castle wall. Already, golden light is shining in the windows, creating the feeling of life thrumming within the citadel, but to Merlin it seems as if the wall itself has reared up to separate him from it. Like a great back, turned against him. You have lost the King’s favour, it whispers to him.

How did this happen?

He tries to think back, to decipher the look in Arthur’s eyes the morning after ... But he cannot recall it clearly, remembers only that the air hung thick with tension between them, and that their plan of escape was laid in short whispers that crowded thick in Merlin’s throat, wanting to communicate more than their mere words would say. He remembers Arthur walking ahead of him all the way to Morgana’s stronghold, head down, and fingers red from the cold. He remembers how silence grew between them, and how, in that silence, fear took the place of the hope that had kindled in Merlin, until it solidified into the understanding of rejection.

And Merlin had thought that Arthur was disgusted, that he was condemning Merlin for his unnatural love for his master.

But he keeps coming back to how Arthur had held him, had told him to ... commanded him to ... Had Merlin really misunderstood so badly? Had it really just been Arthur trying to finish their ordeal as quick as possible? When their eyes had met ... there had been warmth there! Arthur has never, to Merlin’s knowledge, felt desire or love towards another man, but the King is reserved, in love as in all his emotions, and it’s not like Merlin has often caught him taking a woman to bed either. Merlin prides himself in being able to read Arthur, and he thought he had read him true that night. Now doubt is creeping into his every thought.

At a time when being close to Arthur, to guard him, is more important than ever, Merlin has never been farther from him.

“Merlin!” Gwen has seen him and is waving at him to come join them.

Merlin puts a smile on his face and drags his leaden body across the snow-covered flagstones. Guinevere meets him halfway there, cloak already off her shoulders and ready to wrap around him.

“P-Princess Elena.” Merlin bows awkwardly while Gwen ties the cloak together at his throat. He wasn’t even aware of how he has been clenching his teeth, until he opens his mouth and they begin to chatter. “I’m g-glad you’ve arrived safe-f-fely.”

Elena puts Galahad down on his feet, and pulls off a glove in order to cup Merlin’s cheek. He soaks up the warmth gratefully.

“Poor Merlin, you’re so cold! Why aren’t you inside? Where is your master?”

Merlin glances at Leon, but Leon just looks pitying. “I’ve been promoted,” he says, changing his mind from the disparaging thing he was going to say about Arthur, Arthur’s ancestor’s and Arthur’s future offspring. “I’m the royal stock-warmer.”

Gwen swats him on the arm. “That’s not funny, Merlin. You need to go inside and get warm before you catch your death.”

“It was a little funny,” Merlin says. “You can have your cloak back, my Lady. I’ll be inside in a moment.” He fumbles ineffectually at the ties with stiff fingers, making the silver bells ring, until Guinevere places her hands over his, stilling them.

“Stop it,” she says, and now she is pitying him too, and it’s both kind of good and pretty awful. “We’ll be right behind you. Just get inside.”

He bows again, to Elena and Gwen and even Leon, for good measure, and then he turns to the stairs ... and breaks into a run.

Little Galahad has climbed half-way up the slippery steps and is standing up, waving his arms for balance as he discovers his feet are too far back on the ledge. He looks like a bear cub, all wrapped in furs, but they make it hard for him to control his arms and legs. Merlin takes the steps two at the time. He reaches out as Galahad falls backwards, but just as Merlin’s hands close around the boy’s little body, his own foot finds a patch of ice, and skids. For a moment he is in free fall, with Galahad clutched to him.

Hands like iron clamps grab his arms and haul him forward, defeating the irresistible pull of the fall with a mighty heave. The final impact is a soft anticlimactic thump, except for Merlin’s knee, which bangs painfully into the edge of a step. Merlin is sprawled across his saviour’s body, nose buried in a warm chest. Galahad is smooshed between them.

Merlin gasps in relief, only to freeze as the scent of the other man overwhelms him. He dares to lift his head, and looks straight into Arthur’s wide eyes. Arthur smells of soap, fresh laundry and new sweat.

They are close enough to count each other’s eyelashes, close enough for Merlin to see clearly the way Arthur’s pupils widen, darkening his eyes. They are close enough to kiss.

Galahad wails.

Merlin rolls away quickly to take his weight off the child. A dozen people come running, their words falling over Merlin’s head in a tumult. Elena appears and lifts Galahad from Arthur’s lap, taking the boy away to silence his cries. Leon is asking if Arthur is alright, if Merlin is alright. Hands reach out to help them up, closing around Merlin’s arms where the bruises from Arthur’s grip make themselves known.

“Will you move off!” Arthur shouts suddenly, and everyone draws back in surprise.

In the silence, Arthur gets to his feet and brushes snow off his cape. It looks vaguely familiar, blue-grey and lined with wolf fur. It was a gift, Merlin remembers after a moment, from Lord Godwin, for Arthur’s birthday this year. Even half-dead from the cold, and with his heart still beating hard from shock, Merlin finds it in himself to be irritated at George, who is the perfect manservant and must be giving Arthur as much satisfaction as the King can stand.

Then Arthur is grabbing him again and hauling him to his feet, brushing him off briskly. “What are you wearing? This is a girl’s cloak, you idiot.”

“It’s mine,” Guinevere answers him. She comes away from Elena and Galahad, and a silent look from her sends the crowd drifting back to their business.

Arthur frowns at her, and then at Merlin. “You look cold,” he says stupidly.

“That’s because I am,” Merlin replies, astonished that they are actually talking to each other.

Arthur looks down at his gloved hands, where snowflakes are already settling. “It’s too cold for the stocks now. I’m having them shut down today.”

Merlin knots his fingers together and stamps his feet. “Oh yeah?” he says, and his jaw is getting stiff from the cold again. “Does that mean I get a reprieve, or should I report to the dungeons tomorrow?”

Arthur looks up, momentarily horrified. “No. You ...” his eyes fall again. “I saw Gaius this morning. I’ve agreed to raise his salary to support you as his apprentice. It’s ... I’m ... glad, that you’ll be helping him.”

Merlin wants to bully his way under Arthur’s cloak and press his face to Arthur’s chest again, just curl up in the warmth of him and breathe in his scent until spring comes.

“Is that a no on the flogging then?” he asks instead.

“When have I ever had you flogged?” Arthur asks, growing frustrated. He looks like he wants to cuff Merlin over the head, and Merlin wishes he would, just because it would be a touch.

“You don’t need to, I have bruises all over from the way you treat me.” He gestures to his upper arms. “I’ll having matching blue bracelets tomorrow, just wait and see.”

He meant it to be a joke, he really did. It’s not as if it isn’t true, it’s just that Arthur doesn’t know his own strength, and in fact Merlin has, shamefully, welcomed the marks his master has left on his body.

But Arthur turns as white as the snowflakes on the collar of his cloak. “Get inside,” he says, voice a thin rasp. “Go warm up.”

Merlin opens his mouth, means to apologise.

“GO!”

Arthur raises his hand as if he _would_ strike him, and Merlin goes, hurrying up the steps, one last look exchanged with Guinevere his only way to make sure Arthur won’t be alone after this.

There is a fire burning in Merlin now, making him forget the cold. He didn’t imagine Arthur regard for him, he didn’t! It’s there, but it’s shy and scared and hidden behind Arthur’s shields. And Merlin didn’t see it because they have not been talking.

Mordred is in the hallway inside, at a window from which he must have watched the whole scene on the stairs. When Merlin comes inside, the knight turns his typical, slightly curious expression on him.

“That was quite a fall,” he says.

Merlin walks past him. He wants to be alone, to think about what just happened and what it might mean, and looking at Mordred makes him feel sick with dread on the best of days.

“And quite a save too,” the young knight continues eagerly, following Merlin. “Arthur ran as soon as he saw you, before you even slipped. He has an instinct for situations like that, I think.” How can he be so undeterred when Merlin is very clearly ignoring him?

“Or maybe he just has an instinct for you,” Mordred continues.

Merlin stops. It’s warmer inside, but not by much, and he is still shivering. “Is there anything I can do for you, Sir Mordred?” he says as calmly as he can.

Mordred’s brow furrows. “I just ...” He looks back for a second, to see if they have been followed, and even though they haven’t, he comes a little closer and lowers his voice before he continues. “I just can’t figure out what you’re thinking. You and Arthur. Why you aren’t talking to each other.”

“That’s none of your business,” Merlin says, and he doesn’t mean to be so cruel to Mordred, who is yet innocent, but that very innocence, the unreserved kindness in the young knight, makes it hurt all the more to know that he is destined to be Arthur bane.

“I know that it isn’t, I know that being there that night doesn’t give me the right to-”

Merlin is already walking away. He doesn’t want to be reminded of how many eyes watches his first intimate act with Arthur. The only one he will ever have, probably.

_“Emrys, please talk to me. I want to understand. To help.”_

Merlin stops in shock as he feels the gentle, apologetic, push and pull of Mordred’s mind, that somehow doesn’t stop at speech, but actually reaches out, ghostly fingertips skimming across his thoughts and memories.

He stalks back across the space created between them. “Get out of my mind!”

Mordred flinches as Merlin sets his will against him and shoves him out, but the young knight is stubborn, and continues to hold Merlin’s eyes with his own. “You don’t know how much Arthur suffers the loss of you. You didn’t see him in the days after you left. You don’t see him now. Why do you let this go on?”

Merlin leans even closer, using his superior height to its full effect, even as his stomach flutters with joy at Mordred’s words. “Why don’t you ask Arthur about that? Or better yet, read his mind.”

“It doesn’t work like that, you know it doesn’t.”

Merlin withdraws. “That’s too bad,” he says as he turns away. He too would give good money to be able to read Arthur’s thoughts right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm at a very rough patch of road when it comes to character actions and motivations right now, and I hope to hit smoother terrain soon without having completely wrecked the car.


	14. By fee and gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nobles go hunting, but not before Arthur provides Tyr with a story to tell his friends in the tavern.

A wave of heat meets Merlin as he enters The Rising Sun.

“Oi! Shut the door!” someone shouts drunkenly from the back of the room.

“Shut your mouth, can’t you see it’s Merlin?” another patron reprimands the first.

The door swings shut and for a moment, Merlin can’t see anything. The windows are small and the common room of the tavern is large, and the roaring fire is the only other source of light. Slowly, the tables emerge from the dark, a dice game in progress comes into view in a corner, and the shape behind the bar turns out to be Evoric himself, the owner of the tavern.

It’s the middle of the day, and the few occupied tables are equally divided between travellers and patrons. Merlin finds the man he is looking for sitting alone in a corner.

“Were you hiding from me?” Merlin asks.

Sam Welk is built like a house, and with his bushy, dark brows and prominent lips, he’s an immediate eye-catcher in any crowd. Even this one.

“Oh, it's you,” he says dully.

Merlin sits down opposite the man and puts Gaius' leather medicine bag on the table. “You have to take your medicine, Sam.”

Sam glowers drunkenly at him over the rim of his tankard. “Says who?”

Merlin glowers right back. “Says me, and says Gaius, and says the lady who lives across the street from you, and who told me where you'd be.”

“Well you can tell 'em that the medicine ain't working. I can't carry me own firewood anymore. I'm wasting away, and Gaius don't even know what's wrong with me,” Sam says, stabbing a meaty finger at Merlin's chest. 

“Gaius is doing his best,” Merlin replies, even though he knows that Gaius is at his wits end with Sam's disease, and that the potion he's concocted is more a tonic for strength than anything resembling a cure. He takes the bottle of clear liquid out of the medicine bag. “Taking your medicine will buy him time.” He pushes the bottle across the table.

Sam's lips twist moodily. He picks the bottle up, engulfing it in his big hand, and his eyes cross as he tries to focus on the label. Merlin has seen those hands do incredible feats of strength, and it breaks his heart to see them tremble now.

Merlin leans in closer, something fierce and bitterly determined welling up inside him. “Your life is not over because you can’t lift a sack of bricks anymore. You can get another job. I know for a fact that Evoric needs someone to man the bar for him, since Jula got married. Why don't you give him a hand? You know your way around the beer, at least.”

For a long moment, Sam just looks at him, so Merlin keeps pushing. “I know you like to be useful, Sam. Don't be the guy that has to be pulled from the gutter in the morning. Pick yourself up. Gaius will find a cure.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

Sam stares at him until Merlin begins to wonder if the man heard a word. Then Sam slams his tankard onto the table, reaches over and grabs Merlin's shoulder, hauling him across the table and into a hug that knocks the breath out of him.

“You're a good man, Merlin. Thank you. I'll go right now.” He gets up halfway, staggers a bit and crashes right back down on the bench.

Merlin gingerly pushes himself back down on his seat, and rolls his abused shoulder. “Why don't you go home and sober up first? I can put in a good word for you with Evoric.”

“Tha's a good idea.” Sam gets up more slowly this time.

Merlin watches him weave unsteadily between the tables. “Don't forget to take your medicine!” he shouts after him.

True to his word, Merlin lets Evoric know that Sam is interested in the job, but his mind is elsewhere. He wonders where Alice is, the healer woman who was Gaius' love when they were young. She could cure Sam’s strange, crippling illness, Merlin is sure of it. The list of people who need Merlin to fulfil his destiny grows longer and longer.

As he heads for the door, mentally ticking Sam’s name off his list of house calls, he is stopped by a quiet call of his name.

“H-hey, hey Merlin!”

Tyr Seward is valiantly perched on the very end of a bench at a crowded table. Merlin recognises most of the other young men as having various jobs in the royal household. They must be having lunch. Either that or they are neglecting their duties.

“That was nice what you did for Sam,” Tyr says, big eyes beaming with shy approval. “Me mum's been around to him a couple of times with food and the like, trying to cheer him up, but he hasn't been up for listening. You've got a gift, you know.”

Tyr’s kindness warms Merlin better than the fire. He claps Tyr on the shoulder, grinning. “Thank you.”

“What I wanted to ask, though ...” Tyr's eyes flicker away, and though he draws breath for several beginnings, he can’t seem to spit it out. 

Merlin’s hand falls from Tyr’s shoulder. He already knows what the question will be, and his insides are rolling uncomfortably. It’s far too hot in here with the fire and Merlin’s new winter cloak.

Finally, Tyr squares his shoulders and gets it over with. “Why aren't you working for the King anymore?” 

The table grows silent. Tyr searches Merlin’s face, and hurriedly adds, “Just seems like nobody knows the reason, and everybody’s wondering, cause you were so happy before, and now you’re ...” He trails off. “Well, you’re not,” he finishes apologetically.

Merlin shrugs and rattles off the lie he’s made into truth. “We thought it would be good for Gaius to have a full-time apprentice now that he's getting old...-er, and since I've already spent years learning from him, it might as well be me.”

Tyr's brow wrinkles as if he's struggling to understand. “But what will the King do without you?”

Merlin shrugs restlessly. He hasn’t been able to get anywhere near Arthur for the past two weeks. At first it was because they were both busy, but eventually Merlin realised that Arthur was avoiding him.

“Look, there are enough servants in the citadel to keep even His Royal Highness satisfied. He doesn’t miss me. He has George.”

“But he does miss you!” Tyr says, frowning. “And something awful too. It’s like he’s half asleep most times I see him.” He frown into his plate of half-eaten meat pie. “Just this morning he was dreaming about you, I’m sure.”

Merlin takes a step back, unable to listen to this, but Tyr reaches out and grabs his sleeve. “It’s true!” he says eagerly. “He was taking all those fancy lords and ladies out to hunt, and I was bringing out his horse. Lindale actually, today, as Hengroen is ... well.” He forgets his place for a moment as he mourns the loss of Arthur’s favourite horse in Ismere.

“Will you get over that horse and tell us what happened?” another boy at the table asks, annoyed. They’re all intent on Tyr.

“She was a good horse,” Tyr replies angrily.

“Tyr,” Merlin says. “Get on with the story.”

Tyr sniffs and nods. “Alright, alright. So His Majesty comes outside looking happy enough, to be him these days anyway, and his dogs run to greet him and bowl him right over, and he’s laughing as they swarm all over him, until Dagonet got them in line. As they prepare to go, His Majesty makes jokes with Lord Caradoc and plans a race with Princess Elena, and he’s all sunny, like he gets you know, and then he forgets himself completely and says “Ready, Merlin?”, looking around, and then he spots poor old George standing there all silent and proper, and his face goes ashen.” Tyr sighs.

Merlin has a vivid image of Arthur laughing as his huge dogs smother him with their exuberant affection. He catches himself looking to the door, as if he can somehow see Arthur from here, riding into Cameliard, stiff-backed and awkward after his slip-up.

“It’s just silly of him,” Merlin mumbles. “He knows I scare away the game.”

“So why did he keep taking you with him then?” Tyr asks. “Come on, Merlin, for all our sakes, can't you talk to Gaius? Can’t someone else be his apprentice?”

Merlin looks down at Tyr's hopeful face. He shakes his head. “I can’t make any promises, Tyr.” He turns away.

“Want to join us, Merlin?” one of the other boys asks unexpectedly. “You look like you could use an ale.”

Merlin shakes his head and holds up his medicine bag. “I’ve got rounds to make. See you around, guys.”

Goodbyes follow him into the bright afternoon. The sun glitters off the snow in the street, blinding him all over again. Merlin squints, pulls his cloak close around him, and trudges towards the citadel. He had hoped to bump into Arthur there, the way he is always hoping, but he’ll have no luck today either.

He has scaled two floors and is almost at Lady Brangaine’s when it happens. Time slows down, and far away, a massive force of ancient magic shifts, shakes itself and lashes out. It’s so strong that though the assault is not aimed at him, Merlin falls to his knees.

_Arthur._

Merlin shoves himself up and forwards on legs he can't feel, and races to the nearest empty room, the root of his magic branching out and showing him the way. He stumbles through the door that appears before him and falls back against it, sinking to the floor.

When he breathes in, the air is cold, and smells of sunlight, bark and blood. Merlin breathes deeply and lets go of all control, lets his connection to Arthur grow. But he needs something more; he needs a tool, a way to not just be aware of the place where Arthur is, but to touch it.

_‘Fromum feohgiftum on fæder bearme. Hine on ylde eft gewunigen wilgesiþas, þonne wig cume.’_

The ball of light appears in his hands, but this time it provides more than just illumination. Merlin fills it with his will, working on instinct. Pain and madness fills the distant place where Arthur is, and where a veritable fortress of ancient magic has been disturbed by the sharp edge of a child's blade. Merlin sets his will against that storm. He is Emrys, and bit by bit, mind by mind, he conquers the madness.

As the raging magic recedes, Merlin becomes increasingly aware of Arthur, of how the King is losing precious blood, losing time.

But he also becomes aware of Mordred, in that place with Arthur, calling to Merlin, frantic and pleading.

_‘Emrys! Emrys, please! Merlin! Help me! HELP ME!’_

Merlin’s fingers hurt as he curves them, fighting himself, holding himself back. Because someday there will come a red dawn over a silent battlefield, and if Mordred meets Arthur there, Arthur will fall.

Merlin bites his lip until he tastes blood, denying his heart’s need to help. He remembers Kilgharrah telling him that he is the light and Morgana the darkness. That she was the hate to his love. Now love for Arthur is driving Merlin into an act of hate.

“There is no difference between us anymore,” he whispers.

Then, clearer than Mordred's mental scream, another pierces Merlin's ears.

_“HELP HIM! HELP HIM, DAMN YOU!”_

Merlin sobs, shakes his head. “No, Arthur.”

For a short, wonderful time, Arthur had looked at Emrys with different eyes, but if this is the choice, freedom for magic or Arthur’s life, then Merlin chooses easily. He turns his heart to stone, and does nothing while Mordred is dying in the snow. Years ago he changed his mind at the last minute and let Mordred live. He will not do that today.

The screams disappear. Merlin’s lets go.

...

He wakes to himself and his surroundings slowly. He is lying on his side, curled up. The floorboards are rough under his cheek. Tears blind him.

“For you. For you. For you ...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from the translation of the first part of Merlin's spell. It's a line from Beowulf. 
> 
> "With his father's friends by fee and gift."
> 
> Don't ask me what they wanted it to mean in canon, but it actually worked strangely well with this situation, I thought.


	15. Should war draw nigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's hunt is a disaster from beginning to bloody end.

Arthur pulls off his right glove, sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles. Up ahead, Bruta barks excitedly, ducks through the legs of Dagonet’s horse and comes bounding back to Arthur, the rest of the pack close on his heels. Dagonet turns his horse around and waits patiently for Arthur to catch up.

Arthur stops beside his hunting master, and keeps his voice low even though the rest of the hunting party is still some distance behind them. “You can take them within sight of the hills, but no further. I won’t take any risks with the ladies.”

Dagonet inclines his head. “Won’t be more than a airing, this, my Lord. I doubt we’ll find anything, but nonetheless, if we should...”

Arthur looks back at his colourful, merry group of guests. There are men enough, but their heads are not concerned with the hunt. Well ... not the hunt for food anyway.

Lady Mary in her bright red dress and coat is the happy centrepiece of the party, surrounded by the other young ladies like an honour guard. She has dressed to signal her interest to Arthur, and he has caught the message loud and clear. He just wishes she could have delivered it during dinner, or in a hallway, or anywhere else than on his hunt, where she has neither any reason nor actual desire to be. And bringing all her friends along didn’t exactly help.

Her presence, the presence of her clothes especially, will also send a loud and clear signal to any animals they may come across. The only animal she cannot seem to send fleeing is Lord Lionel, who apparently can’t read signs, and keeps trying to flirt with her. He can have her, as far as Arthur is concerned.

But at the moment it is Lord Caradoc who holds the group’s attention. The story he is telling is a bawdy one, judging by the way Juliana and Frieda, and George, are blushing, but then that’s his fashion. Beneath the old man’s frankly incredible bulk, his poor horse looks like it would much rather be back in its box, especially when its master shakes with laughter.

Only Princess Elena rides outside Lady Mary’s pack, in quiet conversation with Mordred and Pellam. She is also the only one of the women dressed sensibly, in brown leathers. It’s all in vain, though. Even if they found tracks, how would they organise the pursuit?

Arthur sighs. “Just keep them occupied. I’ll catch up with you before long.”

Dagonet sniffs, unhappy to made a nursemaid. Arthur tries to feel guilty.

He studies his old friend: the grizzled, unshaven chin, the grey hair surrounding the bald patch on the top of his head. Dagonet’s eyes are deep and his nose long and crooked. It is not a handsome face, but it is dear to Arthur.

“Are you brooding on something?” he asks.

Dagonet sucks on his teeth, thoughtful. “This cold, Sire, is like nothing I’ve felt in these parts since your father, rest his soul, was a princeling on your grandmother’s lap. But it don’t explain why we can’t catch aught, much less find the tracks of aught. With that queer mistletoe overrunning over the western woods, it’s like all the beasts have taken off to safer parts.”

Arthur nods. “I know. These are strange times.”

Dagonet pulls a face. He doesn’t like strange times.

Arthur urges Lindale around to face the oncoming party, clearing his throat to get their attention. “Dagonet will take you onwards for a bit, to see if we can’t catch something. Lord Caradoc, Princess Elena, there is something I wish to show you. Leave your people here. We won’t be going far.”

“My Lord!” Mordred spurs his horse forward. He is awkward in the saddle, unused to riding, and unused to carrying the weight of his chainmail. Arthur envies him; he misses the comforting weight of his own mail, but George had given him a blue shirt to wear that morning, and refused point blank to exchange it for the new mail shirt. Arthur had eventually argued himself to the addition of a sleeveless leather tunic, so he could feel somewhat protected.

The shirt and fur-lined cloak are warmer and more comfortable than mail, but he’ll be damned if he’ll ever let George know that.

“Let me come with you,” Mordred begs.

Arthur bites his lip so he won’t smile at the boy’s eagerness. “You know what it is, Sir Mordred. There is nothing new to see. Stay here, have some fun.”

“Please, Sire. Someone should come along, for your protection.” His wide eyes are earnest, determined. Arthur has to admit he is irresistibly fond of his new knight. He can’t even explain it.

“I was going to bring George, you know, but I suppose you can come to.”

As Princess Elena and Lord Caradoc ride to Arthur’s side, Lady Mary seems to realise she’s been snubbed. She bats her eyelashes in a way that doesn’t disguise her fury in the least. “What is this then? Some kind of secret? Like there is anything to see out here in the forest.”

Arthur wonders how sensible, unshakable Lady Brangaine managed to raise such a shallow daughter. Then again, it’s always the youngest that becomes spoiled.

“Indeed, my Lady, I am sure you would find it terribly dull, which is why I thought to spare you.” It takes a great effort to bury the bitter smile he wants to present her with, but then everything takes a great effort these days.

He gathers Caradoc, Elena, Mordred and George with a look, and leaves the path, striking out in a more Northerly direction.

Dagonet whistles in three short bursts, and barks an order. Bruta, Ulv and Grim break off from the pack and run to Arthur, who receives them with a word of kindness. They wag their dark tails and bury their stumpy noses in the snow.

As the little group enter the western woods, their pace slows down. The trees stand closer together here, their roots large and curved, and in between, the ground is full of sudden hollows that must be climbed in and out of. Arthur lets Lindale choose her own path. She is younger than Hengroen, whom he lost in Ismere, but already she has the placid temper of a much older horse, and she is careful with her rider.

When Arthur gave Guinevere the Darkling Woods, her first action had been to rename it. That Summer, the newly named forest of Cameliard had soaked up the sunlight with new purpose, as if Lady Guinevere’s benign rule was all it needed to throw off the cloak of rot and decay. Arthur and his men hunt here, for a bi-annual sum, and Arthur also employs men to maintain the forest.

It was Arthur’s way of freeing Gwen. He needed her by his side, and if he couldn’t have her as his wife, then he would have her as his advisor. Let his councillors say what they will, let the kingdom rage against him if it chose, he would not be without Guinevere’s steady companionship. So he gave her land, elevating her to nobility. Surprisingly, the storm had not come. Camelot could scarce love Guinevere more when she was a servant, and loved her no less as a lady. Arthur sometimes despairs that when he marries, his Queen will be no match for the one who got away.

They ride in silence for a while, until Caradoc, who isn’t used to being kept in the dark, says, “Really, Arthur, I hate to sound like a woman, but what is there to see this far into the woods?”

“We’re almost there,” Arthur replies simply. He doesn’t feel like trying to explain.

“You know what it is,” Elena says to Mordred, making it less than a statement but not quite a question.

“I do.”

A little later, Caradoc starts again. “Alright, so you won’t tell us where we are going, but tell me this, Arthur, what on earth possessed you to trade in Merlin for this piece of furniture?” He shoves a fat thumb in George's direction. George doesn't even twitch, observing Caradoc with his usual blank anticipation. Caradoc frowns. “Just look at him! Are you deaf, boy? I just insulted you!”

George inclines his head. “I heard, but it is not my place to disagree with your Lordship.”

Arthur pulls Lindale to a stop, perhaps more harshly than he means to. He feels pity for George, and shame because Arthur has been ungrateful to him. “George is right. It isn't his place.” He guides Lindale around with his foot. “Because it is mine. George is the finest servant a King could ask for, and you will not demean him, Caradoc. He gives perfect satisfaction.”

Caradoc rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, but what about Merlin? I feel like we left an arm and a leg back at the citadel, and I don't like it one bit. Why isn't he here, Arthur? He knew how to answer an insult.”

Lindale dances in place as if she can sense the way her master’s heart beats faster.

The days have passed, one by one, and Arthur has felt the sun warm his face, and the snow sting his hands. He has been hungry, and eaten himself full, he has slept deeply and dreamt sweetly, or spent the night awake with Sir Leon, talking of war. He has pretended to smile, and he has even laughed loudly and genuinely.

But the knot stays with him, and sometimes it tightens, and sometimes it chokes him. When he sees Merlin through a doorway, or a window, it makes him dizzy with longing, and when he hears the name spoken, he grows full with the tangle of sore emotions.

“Gaius needed an apprentice. We felt-”

“Who felt?” Caradoc interrupts him. “You felt? I don't believe it for a moment. If I didn't know better, the way you've been brooding in your wine would make me think you had lost your love.” He turns to Elena. “Come, Princess, you must agree with me.”

Elena opens her mouth, shaking her head like she wants to be left out of this, but Arthur beats her to it.

“That is enough!”

Elena startles. Silence falls. All around them the world glitters under a sun that gives no heat. Mordred's horse wickers and tosses its tail.

Arthur closes the gap between himself and Caradoc. He has to look up at the big man. His pulse thunders in his throat. How many times is he going to have to do this?

“This is my private affair, and if you speak of it again it will be the last time you speak to me.” He gives the words a moment to sink in, and then he turns Lindale and spurs her onwards through the trees.

“Your Majesty.”

Arthur stops. After a moment he turns his head.

Caradoc bows in the saddle. “Forgive me. I'm a foolish old wineskin, and I forget my place.”

It's such a sudden change that Arthur has to look away because his eyes are filling with confused tears. “No, I ... I spoke too harshly. You were my father's close friend, and like an uncle to me. I do not command you.”

“But you do.” The surprise in his voice brings Arthur around again. Caradoc looks as serious as Arthur has ever seen him. “Arthur, your father was a great man and a great King ... but you are greater.”

Arthur's jaw falls open. For a long moment he can't speak. His eyes flicker to Princess Elena, and she smiles.

Mordred is practically beaming with pride, and George has lowered his head to hide a grin. George, Arthur thinks sourly, is the kind of piece of furniture that lulls you into a false sense of security and then stabs you in the ass when you try to sit on him.

Arthur clears his throat. “I promised Dagonet we would catch up soon. We should get moving.”

“Lead the way,” Elena says.

Because of the density of the forest, they don't see their destination until they have arrived. Out of nowhere, they are surrounded by trees wrapped in green vines and hung with white berries like grapes in an orchard.

Elena gasps, and even George utters a startled sound.

“What is this place?” Caradoc asks.

“Before the snow fell,” Arthur begins. “These trees were hung with red leaves. All red, not a single green, brown or yellow. Then these plants swarmed up, without warning, and the red leaves fell as one.” He dismounts, walks a few paces away and gets down on his knees, beginning to dig.

“My Lord!”

Arthur can hear George struggling to get down off his horse, all indignation, but Arthur has already reached what he wanted. He closes his fist around a handful of red leaves and holds them up.

“My royal physician tells me that this phenomenon is an omen of coming war.”

Caradoc breathes in slowly, carefully, and the weight of the news settles on his shoulders when he exhales. Elena's eyes are keen as she takes it all in.

Arthur lets the leaves fall, stands and brushes himself off. “I don't want to create panic, but I wanted to show you two this, because I am going to need you both. Lord Caradoc, I want you to send word home, discreetly, mind, for your serfs to prepare themselves. By the end of January, I want them to be training. Send some of them to me, and my knights will give them knowledge to pass on.”

Caradoc nods.

“Princess Elena, you are not bound by oath, like Caradoc, but-”

“King Godwin is your ally,” she says proudly. “If Camelot is in need, he will come, and my husband too. He has a few hundred good men at his command.”

Arthur breathes a sigh of relief. “I am glad. I should warn you, though, that if war is coming, it comes with the Saxons. They've taken Ismere, and threaten Caerleon's borders even now, and they are not without friends amongst our own ... I know for a fact that Morgana has allied herself with them.”

Mordred looks away.

Caradoc’s jaw tightens, but there is determination in it. “That doesn't mean there won't be men to kill, and we will need men to do the killing.”

“But as for Morgana, cannot Gaius ...” Elena begins, hesitating before beginning again. “You say he interpreted this omen ...”

Arthur shakes his head. “Gaius is knowledgeable, and I know for a fact that he studied magic in his youth, but he has left that path a long time ago. This bit of knowledge he gained through a different man. A sorcerer named Emrys.”

“Ha!” Caradoc barks a laugh. “Forests full of mistletoe in winter, druidic legends sprung to life. If it wasn’t right here before my eyes, I would say you had gone mad, Arthur.”

“I wouldn't discount that yet,” Arthur mumbles. He returns to Lindale and pulls a short knife from a sheath on her saddle, taking it to the closest tree.

As he grasps the unnaturally thick stem in his free hand, Bruta whines. The dogs are standing stiff and awkward in the snow, short tails between their legs and big heads lowered, fearful eyes darting between the trees.

“What are you doing, my lord?” Mordred asks slowly, eyeing the dogs warily.

“I promised Gaius I would bring him a sample.”

“Perhaps we ought to leave it alone.”

Arthur trusts his dogs, they have good instincts, and Alaunt Butchers rarely show fear, but he wouldn't be surprised if they are simply reacting to the magic in the air, which they haven’t felt before. Arthur's hair is standing on end too.

He sets his knife to the vine.

The horses toss their heads and move restlessly in place. Bruta growls.

“Down, Bruta,” Arthur says calmly.

“My lord.” Mordred sounds distressed. “Don't!”

“It’s just a plant, Mordred.”

Arthur cuts through the vine.

With a mighty bark, Bruta launches himself at Arthur, and in the same instant, the horses all rear up as if on command. Bruta’s teeth close around Arthur’s shoulder, and the weight of the massive dog carries him to the ground. There are cries of alarm and pain from the others, but Arthur is busy trying to keep Bruta from his throat. His faithful companion's eyes are white like the snow, his barks are deafening, and his spittle flecks Arthur's face.

Arthur stabs blindly with the knife that is still clutched in his hand, and feels it sink to the handle in warm flesh, but it does nothing to deter the hound. Arthur’s other hand is around Bruta’s ear, pulling, but he can feel his grip slipping, and his shoulder is burning in pain, sapping the strength from his knife-hand. He kicks uselessly.

Then Mordred's arms close around Bruta’s middle, hauling him off and away. Bruta writhes, snarls, twists around, and Mordred goes down with a cry.

Arthur raises his head and sees the field through a haze of blood. Grim lies dead in the snow, blood in his fur, tongue lolling and eyes rolled back. Elena is nowhere to be seen. George is unconscious, his horse gone. Caradoc is trying desperately to stay on the back of his furiously bucking animal.

Mordred has both Bruta and Ulv on top of him, but he has pulled up the hood of his mail shirt, and it keeps his throat safe.

Blood soaks the snow.

Lindale appears suddenly, and Arthur rolls away just as her hooves come down where his head was a moment ago. He keeps rolling and rolling, hears the furious stamping and snorts of a horse gone mad. Then his back hits a tree.

_'This is it,'_ he thinks.

Lindale's hooves come down on Arthur's side like an anvil, knocking the breath from him.

He looks up, wonders at the blue light colouring everything, before he sees the bubble of wispy light touching Lindale's forehead. Her eyes go from white to brown. She rears back, neighing in fear, and takes off through the trees.

The ball goes straight for Caradoc's horse next, and a single touch calms it down, its eyes returning to normal.

Mordred cries out in fear and pain. Ulv has his teeth around Mordred's leg, but the big, grey dog is rapidly losing his strength, his gut sliced open and his innards hanging out. Bruta is single-mindedly trying to scratch off the mail hood that keeps him from his kill. There is so much blood everywhere.

Arthur can't move, and Caradoc is falling from his horse, useless with fatigue.

The ball hangs in the air. Still, shining with its own light, but untouched by the sun. Arthur draws breath by sheer force of will. Again and again, deeper and deeper. He watches as Emrys completely ignores Mordred's screams of pain.

“HELP HIM!” Arthur roars, tearing his throat on the words. “HELP HIM, DAMN YOU!”

Darkness takes him, and in the sudden stillness, he can hear words.

“For you. For you. For you ...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This title is taken from the translation of the second half of Merlin's spell. It's another line from Beowulf.
> 
> "That to aid him, aged, in after days come warriors willing, should war draw nigh."


	16. Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur dreams.

Arthur faces Bruta beneath a black sky.

“Why did you do it?” Arthur asks.

Bruta’s stance is wide. He bows his head and looks away when Arthur reaches out to him.

“Why did you do it?” Arthur asks again.

“Why did you do it?” a new voice asks. Arthur turns around.

But it is only himself standing there, hand outstretched. Arthur shies away from the offered touch, his claws clutching awkwardly at the icy ground.

“Why did you do it?” the other Arthur asks.

Arthur wants to answer, to defend himself, but all that comes out is a whine.

The ground gives a violent shake, his paws skid out from under him and he falls, but instead of slamming into the ice, he wakes up.

Arthur feels cold wind on his face, feels a horse moving beneath him and a big body pressed up close behind him. He opens his eyes, and the towers of his beloved citadel come into focus, their outline barely visible in the closing dark, like the raised edges of a carving catching the distant light of a single candle. And there are candles, countless numbers burning in windows, like stars …

Pain catches up with him, and sweeps him into a new dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a little filler I made while I was struggling with chapter 17. I might expand it later, but right now I'm swamped with thesis work and not really feeling the creative vibe, so I'll leave it for a better time.


	17. Love calls you home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Elena escaped, and how she returned, and how King Arthur's life was saved by a mysterious sorcerer.

Elena feels the tension in Adro’s body spike a split second before King Arthur cuts the vine. Instinct makes her tighten her grip on the reins and squeeze her legs around Adro’s flanks, just in time before he shoves upwards, all his power unleashed.

Mordred has no such instinct and falls from his own horse, while Caradoc clings like Elena. George, already dismounted, takes Fire’s hooves to the chest. Arthur goes down with Bruta’s bulk on top of him.

It feels like the world has slowed down, until Adro’s forelegs hit the ground again, nearly dislodging Elena. She bites down and tastes blood. Her mind is blank, she can’t think for fear, but she hangs on, even when Adro begins to kick his hind legs, tossing like a bull to throw her off. There’s an energy in the air that feels strangely familiar to her, a potent presence of something all-encompassing and ancient.

Adro’s eyes are white, not his own. Across the clearing, Caradoc’s stallion is in the same state. Fire is disappearing in between the trees, running like she’s gone mad. Only Lindale remains, standing unnaturally still in the snow next to Grim and Ulv, watching dispassionately as Bruta goes for Arthur’s throat.

Mordred crawls to his feet, pulls up his mail hood and draws his sword. Adro rears again, as Mordred makes his way drunkenly towards the King. Elena refuses to be thrown. Once they come back down, she draws her hunting knife, and with a silent apology to her beloved stallion, she drives the knife into his hindquarters.

Adro screams and bounds forward. The last thing Elena sees is Mordred swinging his sword at Grim. Elena clings to Adro’s mane while he gallops through the snow, blinded by pain. Slowly, she finds a balance, clinging with her legs so she can recapture the reins. Then she reaches back and yanks out the knife.

Adro comes to an abrupt halt, and this finally throws Elena form his back. She lands in a hollow full of snow, listening to the profound quiet beneath the sound of her own and Adro’s laboured breathing. Her heart is racing and the blood-stained knife is still in her hand.

She sits up slowly, careful not to scare Adro, but getting him away from the clearing seemed to have worked; his eyes are his own again, brown and kind, though full of a fear that Elena also feels.

“What happened to you, darling?” She begins to crawl towards him. “What happened back there?”

His ears lie flat and his eyes are rolling in his skull, so she puts the knife down and holds her hands up, speaks soothingly to him. She finds the reins in the snow and use his warm body to pull herself to her feet. She pets his sweaty neck and continues to speak calmly.

“I have to leave you here, do you understand? I must go back. King Arthur is in danger still.”

Adro is bleeding, but the wound is not deep; he will recover. She ties the reins to a branch, takes his head in her hands and strokes his muzzle.

“I’ll come back for you,” she repeats, leaning her forehead against his for a moment.

Then she picks up the knife and runs back towards the glade, following Adro’s hoof prints. It’s slow and heavy going, plodding through snow that is knee-deep in places, and stumbling over hidden roots, but Elena does not heed her own burning lungs or aching legs. She thinks of King Arthur, of loyal Mordred and poor George.

Little Galahad flashes through her mind, but he would want his mummy to be brave, to fight for the Kingdom that her child will no doubt grow up to love as much as she does. He will forgive her if she loses her life to this. Not that she intends to. She clutches the knife tighter and pushes on.

Finally, she sees the mistletoe-trees in the distance, and a strange blue light shining in between them. 

She hears Arthur shouting, and her heart soars with hope. The final distance feels like a mile, but at last she stumbles into the clearing. George and Caradoc are unconscious, the horses are all gone, Grim is dead and Ulv is just collapsing, his guts spilling out through his opened stomach. Mordred has a knife in his hand but Bruta has his teeth around Mordred’s forearm. The knight beats his other hand sluggishly against the dog’s nose, but he is weeping with exhaustion, and has no strength left.

Elena stumbles forward, sees Mordred’s sword lying abandoned in the snow, drops her knife and retrieves it. Bruta doesn’t notice her coming, completely focused on Mordred. Elena heaves the blade over her head with a cry, and stabs it into Bruta’s neck.

The dog yelps, a high and panicked sound, and thrashes wildly, before collapsing, dead, onto Mordred’s body.

Elena falls to her knees. Her hair is escaping from its ties, and falling across her face. The acrid tang of blood is in her mouth and in her nostrils. Her lungs are on fire and her thighs are viciously cramping.

Mordred weeps quietly, breath hitching and tears sliding down his temples.

Elena hardly knows how she manages to get back to her feet, to roll Bruta off of Mordred, to cross the clearing to get to Arthur, and find him breathing, but impossible to wake. She will remember it in flashes, later, see George’s eyes fluttering open before his face crumples in nausea, feel Caradoc’s immense weight as he leans on her in order to find his feet. She will not remember going back for Adro, but will remember the ride that follows, as she alone rides back to where they left the larger hunting party, and then follows their tracks until she catches up with them.

Dagonet takes one look at her and sends the three knights in the party to the King’s aid.

The women and remaining men are sent ahead back to Camelot, but Elena refuses to join them.

Lord Lionel rides to her side and places a hand on her elbow. “Your Majesty, you need a physician. The knights will take care of King Arthur.”

Elena shakes her head and pulls Adro and herself out of his reach.

“I will go with Dagonet.”

Even the hunting master looks at her with a frown like he wants to protest, but he has no authority to deny her.

“I am unharmed,” she insists. “Merely shaken. We were attacked with magic: you need me.”

Always, they expect her to simply bow her head and leave the work to the men. All except Arthur. He understands.

Elena takes off after the knights, and Dagonet has no choice but to follow.

When they near the glade, Elena cautions the men to dismount. One of the knights, Sir Sagramore, remains behind with the horses. Only Dagonet brings his horse into the glade, walking close by her head and speaking gently to her.

Caradoc is crouched by Mordred, cradling the boy’s head in his big hands. George sits with Arthur’s head in his lap, sobbing as he tries ineffectually to dab away the blood welling from Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur has still not stirred, and Mordred has followed his King into oblivion.

Dagonet’s horse remains calm, though the smell of blood makes it jittery. It seems that the magic in this place is satisfied with the damage it has done. Dagonet leaves his horse and goes to kneel at Arthur’s side. “Courage now, boy,” he says to George.

Sir Pellam and Sir Dinadan go to Mordred, and Elena runs back to tell Sir Sagramore that he can bring the horses.

Sir Dinadan is the strongest of them, so he will ride with Arthur. They lift the King gently, mindful of his injuries, and the knight cradles him carefully to his chest. Mordred is given to Sir Sagramore, and George rides behind Sir Pellam. Dagonet gives up his horse to Lord Caradoc, and Elena has Adro, who limps a bit but does not complain.

The journey back to Camelot must go slowly. Arthur’s visible injuries are severe, and he may have internal injuries as well, judging by the bruises along his side. Mordred hurt his head when he fell from his horse. Jostled by trotting or galloping horses, these injuries could turn deadly.

By the time they find the main trail again, dusk has come. The ride that was so pleasant one way, becomes long, tiring and anxious on the return.

Elena hungers for the warmth of Camelot's halls, and for Galahad silky hair against her cheek, his little body safe in her arms.

Before their eyes, the road grows dimmer and dimmer.

They’ve ridden for about an hour when, without warning, a mighty wind descends and whips the powdery snow into the air, encasing the riders in a white whirlwind. The horses neigh fearfully and dance in place, refusing to move forward.

“What is this infernal storm?” Sir Dinadan cries.

“Nothing natural,” answers Dagonet, his voice almost disappearing on the wind. “There is sorcery at work.”

He is right. Once again, Elena can feel the thrum of ancient power, coming closer and growing stronger. She pulls her cloak closer around herself. More evil? Hasn't magic done enough damage today?

Then, ahead on the road, a horse appears, with a cloaked rider.

Dagonet, Lord Caradoc and Sir Sagramore draw their swords and place themselves in front of the knights carrying the injured.

“Who goes there?” Lord Caradoc asks.

“It's the sorcerer,” Elena says. It’s incredible. So much power contained in a single body. It feels as great, if not greater than the power of the clearing. She squints through the whirling snow, tries to get a better idea of this remarkable person, but he is wearing a cloak so long and shapeless that nothing can be told about him.

“What do you want?” Lord Caradoc tries again.

The sorcerer stretches a hand towards them, and calls out in a strange and terrible voice.

_“Tóbregdan slæpe, mín Cyning. Þín ándaga ne cumen. Nan folma déoren cunnan þín breguróf ríce ábréoðan.”_

Arthur stirs, chest rising with a deep breath as if he is being pulled towards the sorcerer. Perhaps it is only Elena's imagination, but some colour seems to return to his cheeks.

_“Se déaþscúa beligeeþ þu, ond hit biþ bresne, ac ic béo mára.”_

Arthur's eyelashes flutter. He moans.

“The King is waking!” Sir Dinadan cries.

_“Fram heortean, ácíege ic þu.”_

Arthur's draws a sharp breath. The wind grows weaker, the snow does not rise so high, and Elena can see more clearly through it. She wonders at the cloak the sorcerer is wearing, how thin it is, how blue. What manner of tailor would make such a thing?

_“Tóbregdan slæpe, ond hálige!”_

Again, Arthur's eyelashes flutter, stronger this time. 

The sorcerer's hand falls. In a voice so low Elena nearly doesn't hear it, he completes the spell.

_“Heorcne to mec, Arthur. Hit biþ ne bealucræft, ac bróðorlufu ácíege þu heorþe.”_

For a moment, the sorcerer lingers, before he abruptly pulls his horse around and gallops away. The wind dies, the snow flutters to the ground. Elena longs to pursue the stranger, but Adro isn’t up for it.

“It's a miracle,” Sir Dinadan whispers. He has pulled aside Arthur's torn vest and shirt, which no longer stick to his skin. The wound, before a mass of torn flesh and blood, is now a mix of scarring and small remaining lacerations. “He is all but healed.”

“We are not safe yet,” Dagonet cautions. “Do not trust to sorcery. We must get them to Gaius.”

“And Sir Mordred was not affected,” Sir Sagramore adds. “Why didn’t the sorcerer heal them both?”

They look at each other, doubt creeping in to replace their joy.

With the wind gone, and night falling, their path winds through a silent world, until at last, the city of Camelot welcomes them home with hundreds of lit candles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Spell translation** (aka What it would have said if I understood Old English grammar):
> 
> Wake, my King! Your time has not yet come. No paw of beast can destroy your mighty reign.
> 
> The shadow of death lies upon you, and it is strong, but I am stronger.
> 
> From my heart I call you.
> 
> Wake now, and be healed!
> 
> Listen to me, Arthur. It is not magic, but love that calls you home.


	18. The world will end in fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin struggles to come down from his magic high. Somehow, he ends up in Arthur's bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from Robert Frost's "Fire and Ice". We began with ice, and eighteen chapters later, fire takes over.
> 
> I really struggled with the set-up of this chapter, which is why I am a week late in posting.

The world is full of magic. It runs beneath the ground like a massive current, gushing up through the trunks of trees and into the veins of the leaves. It thrives in the wings of birds and in the breath of beasts, and pools like drops of pure gold in the hearts of men and women.

Even the shapes of snowflakes are made complex and unique by magic.

But while anyone can feel wonder at the sharpness of an eagle’s eye, or the vibrancy of a flower, most people will never actually see the magic thrumming at the core of these miracles. Merlin is not most people, and he has thrown wide the door and taken the magic of the world into himself. Like a young tree he has let the current flow through his limbs, granting him unlimited power.

Through the current, he can become part of anything. Part of the wind that he commands to rise up like a storm, to obscure him from the riders in a whirl of snow. Part of the history of the world, that he may know the language spoken of old, and speak it now, to unlock a magic he has never mastered. Healing.

Because Merlin is part of Arthur, and yearns to end his King’s pain. He commands Arthur’s torn flesh to knit itself back together, and the breaks in his bones to seal themselves shut. A single fire burns within them both, and now that Merlin has thrown wide the door, it ravages him.

Riding away is one of the hardest things Merlin has ever done.

Problem is, now that he has let the current in, Merlin can’t seem to shut it out again.

He finds the secret tunnel into the citadel, commands the horse to go home, and all the while snow whirls around him on a wind that refuses to die. His path his obscured by it, and it blasts his face like a myriad of tiny blades. He can feel the earth breathing beneath his feet, rising and falling with the deep, even breaths of the sleeping.

Merlin grips the rusted, but solid bars of the grate at the entrance to the tunnel, leans his burning forehead against them and tries to just breathe, but the world is screaming at him, and from far away comes the sound of galloping horses. They are coming closer and closer, coming for Arthur. The horses of destiny are foaming at the mouth, their eyes are rolled back in their skulls, and they are hungry for the King’s life. Merlin reaches out blindly behind him, but the current is too strong in him now; he can’t hold on and he can’t command it any longer.

The grate crumbles to dust in his hands, clearing his way. Merlin’s huge, shapeless cape trails after him, dragging snow, as he careens helplessly into the tunnel. The air in here is dry and frigid, scraping Merlin’s throat and nostrils, and he tries to use the sensation to centre himself, but reality eludes him under the onslaught of visions.

Long dead lords sleep here, their tombs forgotten, their stone effigies losing their features to the teeth of time. There is a willow tit hiding in the tunnel wall, in a corner by the head of one of the tombs. It trills loudly as Merlin comes closer, agitated by his presence, or by the power that fills him, pressing outwards and threatening to burst his chest or set him on fire.

Merlin stops. Summer comes, green shoots spring up from the dirt floor, and Morgana kneels down next to the hole in the wall, cupping her hands and retrieving the willow tit from its nest.

_It chirps fearfully and beats its good wing helplessly. There is blood in its white belly-feathers._

_“Don’t hurt it,” Merlin says to Morgana._

_She looks up at him curiously. “I’m not going to hurt it.”_

_“Can’t you save it?”_

_Morgana shakes her head. “It has to die.”_

_Merlin looks at the little bird, which squirms helplessly in Morgana’s hands. “How did it get hurt?”_

_Morgana shrugs. “It wasn’t my fault. It was supposed to happen. We all have a destiny.”_

_The tit is chirping loudly, and the song sounds desperate, and beautiful._

_“It isn’t fair. Can’t you save it?” Merlin asks again._

_Morgana rises and comes to him. Gently, she tips the bird into Merlin’s hands. “Why don’t you save him?”_

_Merlin looks down at the willow tit, looks into its black, terrified eyes. “I can’t. He is going to kill Arthur.”_

_Morgana smiles. “Don’t worry, Merlin, that won’t be your fault either. It’s supposed to happen. It is destiny.”_

_Merlin shakes his head. “No.” He lets the willow tit tumble from his hands._

He blinks and it is gone: the grass, Morgana, all of it. Far down the corridor he can hear the flown bird chirping.

“Great,” he mutters. “I'm hallucinating.” He clears his throat, stamps his feet and pulls his cloak closer about him, but it's all for show; it is only his skin that is cold. Inside he is high summer.

He forces himself forward, step by step, down the tunnel and up several flights of stairs, until the stones and pillars begin to look familiar. Thankfully, he retains the presence of mind to stash the cloak in an empty room. It is actually the jacket from his stolen, blue ensemble, transformed by a hasty spell into something huge and shapeless, but it served its purpose, hiding him, boots and all.

As he makes his way to Gaius' chambers, people seem to appear out of thin air and melt out of the walls. They are insubstantial, glowing, golden ghosts, life but not form. Some of them speak to him, but he can't hear them over the heartbeat pounding in his head like a drum. Arthur's heart, strong and healthy. Arthur is close. Merlin wants to go to him. There are hounds barking in Arthur's dreams. Merlin wants to silence them.

_“Merlin.”_

That is his father's voice. Merlin stops and looks around, and suddenly there are hands on his arms, pulling him back against a strong frame. He lets his head fall back against his father's shoulder, and closes his eyes.

“The hounds are barking.”

_“You have taken on too much, my son. You have to shut the door before you lose yourself.”_

_Balinor lowers them both to the ground, and holds Merlin in his arms. Merlin looks up into his father's kind face._

_“How are you here?”_

_“I am always with you, Merlin.”_

_Merlin reaches up and brushes his father's cheek with his fingertips. “I am so lost, Father. I have done a terrible thing. And still the horses come closer.”_

_Balinor nods. “I know. It takes power beyond mortal man to halt the approach of those beasts.”_

_Tears spill from Merlin’s eyes, but his father brushes them away. “Don't give up, Merlin. There is a power greater still than destiny, and you possess it.”_

_“It hurts,” Merlin says, because it does. The fire he shares with Arthur burns him._

_Balinor smiles. “It does.”_

_The current rushes through him, makes him arch and clench his teeth lest it drag him out of himself. “It's so hot,” Merlin moans. He pulls at his neckerchief. “I can’t breathe. It’s battering me.”_

_“You must shut the door, Merlin.”_

_“I don't know how!”_

_“Close your eyes, and find yourself again. What is it that grounds you?”_

_Merlin closes his eyes. Thinks of Arthur, but finds himself soaring. Arthur inspires him to move mountains, makes the current rise and rush._

_“Mum,” Merlin mumbles. He thinks of his mother in her little house in Ealdor, braiding her hair in the morning. He feels her steadying kiss on his forehead._

_The door shuts._

_“Well done, Merlin. Sleep now, my son.”_

_The current slows to a trickle, and then pools, still at last._

Merlin drifts. His bones ache. He thinks he hears a final, whispered “ _sleep_ ”. He obeys.

Voices invade his dream. Deep, murmuring.

“We found him in the south wing, asleep on the floor.”

“He's running a fever.”

“I wish I could say I was surprised. These last few weeks have been hard on him. Can you take him to my chambers? He needs rest more than anything.”

Merlin is so tired. He can't seem to surface. His body is so heavy he can’t move. He is being held, he thinks, in someone’s arms.

“Wait, Elyan, I have a better idea.”

“Gwaine ...”

“Why not? The bed is huge, Gaius can look after them both, and Merlin will sleep like a baby.”

“Hmm ... Sir Gwaine has a point, and don’t look at me like that, he is no more a fool than the rest of you. Just put him on the left side, and don’t let him put any pressure on Arthur’s ribs.”

Merlin is lowered onto something soft enough to drown in. There is silk against his cheek. Someone tugs at his boots, slips them off. Thick, calloused fingers pull at the knot on his neckerchief. Merlin moans uselessly, struggling to wake up. He manages to open his eyes, but everything is hazy.

“Hey, Merlin,” Elyan’s voice says soothingly. “You're sick, buddy, but you're safe.”

An arm behind his shoulders raises him up enough to put a glass of water to his lips. Cool liquid runs into his mouth, and he manages to swallow some of it.

“Ops, spilled a bit there. He’s completely out of it.” That’s Gwaine. Good old Gwaine.

Someone pulls his trousers off. Merlin would protest, but he can’t.

“Alright, under the covers now. Gonna try not to disturb the princess.”

Soft warmth covers him. There is someone else there, someone warm, someone who smells like home. Merlin forces his eyes open, struggles to focus even as exhaustion makes his eyes cross. Then he recognises Arthur's golden hair and the sweeping lines of his lips and eyelashes. Merlin makes a small, wounded sound and burrows closer to feel Arthur's living warmth, noses at Arthur's shoulder and breathes in the scent of him.

_‘Oh let this be my reward. I will endure anything if I can only be with him.’_

“Told you,” Gwaine says quietly.

Merlin closes his eyes, and is immediately swept back under.

_Morgana lifts the bird from the ground. It is no longer summer in the dream, but autumn. “Fine. If you don’t want him, I’ll take him.”_

_“No, please! Why must this happen?” Merlin cries._

_Morgana takes the willow tit in her mouth and swallows it. Then she speaks in the voice of the Great Dragon. “None of us can choose our destiny, Merlin. And none of us can escape it.”_

_“I am the most powerful man in Albion! Arthur will live! I will make it so!”_

_Morgana laughs. “What you are is too late.”_

_“Merlin?”_

_Merlin turns around, and there stands Arthur, his chain mail pierced through the side._

“Merlin.”

_“No, Arthur!”_

“Merlin, wake up.”

Merlin’s eyes blink open to find Arthur hovering over him. He doesn’t even think, just lunges forward and presses his lips against Arthur’s. It lasts for one long, glorious second before Arthur shoves him back down into the mattress. The mattress on Arthur's bed.

“Merlin!”

Merlin’s chest heaves. He pulls at Arthur’s neck and shoulder, fighting against the hands that pin him cruelly to the sheets.

“Need you, need you, need you, please!”

With a growl, Arthur grabs Merlin’s wrists and pins all of him down by pressing the captured hands to Merlin’s chest. “Are you still asleep?” he asks roughly. “What is wrong with you?”

Merlin squirms, rubbing his face into the pillow. Being surrounded by Arthur’s scent and Arthur’s body is driving him crazy with want, as if he is still asleep and some wild thing is awake in his place.

“Come on, kiss me,” he pleads, arching. “I know you want to kiss me.”

“No, Merlin, come to your senses.” Arthur looks horrified.

Merlin sobers for the sake of Arthur’s frightened tone, forces himself to lie still, though he still pants for breath. “Arthur, you never hurt me. You never did.”

Arthur searches Merlin’s face with his eyes, uncomprehending. “Do not say that,” he whispers. “You will not pretend, you will not try to smooth over what I did.”

“You did nothing.”

“Yes! I did nothing. Nothing to stop Ragnor.”

“What could you have done?” Merlin’s stomach turns at the thought of everything he himself could have done, but he denies the thought vehemently; Arthur was willing, which means he and Merlin can take the moment back, make it all about them, and forget the people who watched.

Arthur hangs his head in shame. “I could have offered them my own body, but I said nothing, and in the end, I ... I used you.”

“Used me?” Merlin laughs, an angry bark of a sound. “My lord, I was your willing accomplice. I have wanted you for years. I thought you saw it in my eyes that night. I was sure that you had seen.” It seems easy now, to give voice to his humiliating mistake, his insecurity. It matters so little in comparison to losing Arthur without ever having had another kiss.

Arthur eyes are blue and uncomprehending. “... I saw only your loyalty to me.”

“But there was more there,” Merlin insists. “I _was_ willing. Despite the audience, it was so good. You were so good.”

“It doesn’t matter, Merlin.” Arthur sounds dazed, but his eyes grow sharp as he tightens his grip on Merlin’s wrists, making the bones grind together. “I did what I did without that knowledge.”

“What choice did you have?” Merlin argues, voice rising. “Do you think I don’t know what they would have done to me if you had refused?”

“That is not an excuse!” Arthur shouts back. “I am a tyrant and a bully, and I raped you!”

Merlin growls. “Then start begging!”

Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise.

Merlin screws up his mouth and glares. “You’re a tyrant and bully, and I demand you apologise.”

Arthur’s mouth falls open. Merlin wants to get his tongue in there, but restrains himself.

“Well?” he says instead. “Beg for my forgiveness.”

“Merlin ...” Arthur swallows, and licks his lips. “I acted like a beast, base and selfish. I thought I had grown to be better than the man I was before ... before you came along, but in Ismere I understood differently. I am still that man. I don’t deserve your loyalty, or your forgiveness.”

“Let go of me,” Merlin says.

Arthur quickly lets go. After a moment, he flinches in pain and eases himself down on the mattress, relieving his no doubt aching body of its own weight.

Merlin rolls over to face him. He cups Arthur’s face in his hand. “If you know me at all, Arthur Pendragon, you should know that the moment you prove yourself unworthy of my loyalty, I will take it back.” He holds Arthur’s gaze ruthlessly, leans in and lowers his voice. “But I did not spend myself in my trousers in front of bandits and knights and all the stars because I am _loyal_ to you.”

Arthur shudders, his knuckles white where he grips the covers.

Merlin leans in closer, until their lips are almost brushing, and he can feel Arthur’s breath against his skin. “Do you really not know that I love you? That I have loved you all our years together?”

Something breaks in Arthur, Merlin can see the it in his eyes when it happens.

“You did not love me when we met,” Arthur whispers.

Merlin smiles. “That’s because you were being a prat,” he whispers back, and kisses Arthur again. Though it is no more than a chaste press of lips, the kiss zings through Merlin like a new kind of fire. Arthur is holding himself still, neither rejecting nor participating, but he parts his lips when Merlin pushes harder. The taste of Arthur’s mouth has thickened with sleep. Merlin marvels that only moments ago, he did not know this smooth taste, this flavour so essential to Arthur. From this moment on, the world is brand new.

Arthur moans suddenly, wildly, and finally moves, digging a hand into Merlin’s hair and tilting his head to get deeper into the kiss. He pushes his tongue into Merlin’s willing mouth, and Merlin sucks on it eagerly.

Merlin had no idea that such a simple touch could feel so good, could make him feel good all over. His spine tingles with pleasure when Arthur puts an arm around him and drags him across the final inch, until they are chest to chest and thigh to thigh.

Merlin breaks the kiss with a gasp, struggles for air and pushes his hot face against Arthur’s chest. “Oh God, I can feel you. You’re hard for me.”

Arthur’s breath stutters in surprise. “Merlin,” he says, embarrassed. Merlin mouths at the lapel of Arthur’s nightshirt, bites at the dry wool and tries to calm himself down.

Arthur strokes his back with his big, wonderful hands. “You- You are too. H-hard.”

Merlin rolls his hips, makes the circle smaller and smaller until he is grinding their clothed cocks together.

“Merlin. Merlin!” Suddenly, Arthur is pushing him back again.

Merlin is all set to shout his frustration at him, but the vulnerability in Arthur’s expression stops him.

Arthur swallows. “God, you are ...” He exhales shakily. “You are everything to me.”

Merlin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath against his own need.

“I am sorry,” Arthur says. When Merlin looks, the King has that hurt, littleboy look on his face, and he is directing it at their mutual “problem”, of all things.

“My Prince,” Merlin says, and eases his way back into Arthur’s arms. He strokes Arthur’s hair and kisses him chastely. “I can wait for you.”

Arthur smiles, tremulously. Suddenly, he groans in pain. “It’s probably for the best; Gaius will be angry enough we exerted ourselves at all.” He shifts to take the weight off his bruised side.

Merlin helps him settle down, and keeps his arms around Arthur afterwards. “Sleep now, my Prince. Heal.”

Arthur nods. “You too. From what I’ve been told, you’ve gone and made yourself sick with missing me.” He winks smugly.

In retaliation, Merlin pokes the King’s bruised side, making him yelp. “Say that again, I dare you.”

They make themselves sleepy with good-natured bickering. Arthur drifts off first. Merlin lies awake, listening to Arthur breathe. He watches the fire dancing in the hearth, and it accompanies him into his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think of this chapter as a sort of "end of part 1", since the romantic plot takes such a big step forward. So what is in store for part 2? Well, you might have noticed that one of my story tags has not actually happened yet ...


	19. Bonds of love and loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur learns some shocking truths about himself, and about Gaius.

”Explain this to me, Gaius,” Arthur says. He has left Merlin to sleep away the morning, and come down to see Mordred, though the knight, who also sleeps, will not know he was here. Bright afternoon sunlight streams through the little window high on the wall, bathing the sickbed, and the young man on it. The silence of Gaius’ house is profound, probably because Merlin isn’t here.

Gaius looks at Arthur for a long time. “It seems to me you are asking for a number of explanations, Sire.”

Arthur contemplates Mordred’s round, boyish face, which looks serious in rest. “Emrys is still in Camelot. Or he was last night anyway. He has no regard for my authority.”

He hears Gaius sigh faintly. “On the contrary, Sire, his regard is so great that he is willing to defy you in order to save you.”

Arthur rubs his eyes tiredly. His shoulder, where Bruta bit him, is a mass of scars, tender to touch, but without pain. The only remaining injury from the skirmish is the massive bruise from Lindale’s hooves, though even that is just the remnant of a greater wound involving what must have been several broken ribs. Emrys knows his craft. Arthur feels drained though, like he could sleep until Spring.

“Gaius …”

Something in his tone must worry the physician, because he shows Arthur to a bench and kneels down in front of him to feel his forehead and take his pulse. In contrast to Mordred’s face, Gaius’ bears the marks of age, in wrinkles, and in a weight that never seems to leave his eyes. It is the weight of wisdom, or of cares, or perhaps of both. This face that has changed remarkably little since Arthur was a child, except to grow more dear.

Arthur places a hand on Gaius’ shoulder. “Gaius, tell me you have not betrayed me. Tell me you didn’t know he was still here.”

Gaius rises with some effort, and sits down beside Arthur. “I can swear to the first, but not to the second, I’m ashamed to say.” To his credit, he looks genuinely contrite.

Arthur drops his head into his hands and scrubs them through his hair, roused by frustration. “Why didn’t he save Mordred? I begged him, but he wouldn’t. And last night you told me he met us on the road, healed my wounds, but once again left Mordred to die. What is he thinking? Mordred is loyal and kind; he does not deserve this.”

Gaius purses his lips, looking sadly at Mordred’s still form. “I cannot speak for Emrys.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Arthur says, more sharply than he means to.

He is surprised when Gaius turns to him, looking determined and even proud. “Won’t … Sire.”

Arthur presses his lips together to keep them from pouting, childishly angry at being denied his will. It doesn’t help that he is still wearing his sleep hose and nightshirt either, and he might be overcompensating a bit when he sternly demands that Gaius explain himself.

Gaius gives him another infuriating pause, before nodding to himself. “Perhaps it is time you were told this story, though I held out hope that I would not have to tell it. Now it seems I am the only one left who can.” He settles on the bench with his elbows on his knees, and his gaze drifts off to somewhere far away, and perhaps long ago.

“From the day that Uther took the throne, Camelot flowered. He ruled justly and intelligently, and the love he bore his wife kept his heart kind, but there was one great sorrow that the King and Queen shared with all the nation, and that was the absence of a child. After many years of trying and failing to produce an heir, Uther turned to one of his close friends at court, the High Priestess Nimueh.”

“What?” Arthur’s chest constricts with incredulity, anger and confusion. “Nimueh at my father’s court? Are you mad?”

Gaius gives him the eyebrow. “I do not tell lies, Sire. You would do well to listen, and not interrupt me. Now as I was saying, Uther asked Nimueh to use her magic to help the Lady Igraine to conceive. Nimueh warned Uther that in order to create a life, another life had to be given in payment. Nonetheless, Uther wanted it done, and so Nimueh wrought her magic. For the next nine months, no couple was happier than Uther and Igraine, as Igraine’s belly began to swell, and the baby proved his strength in many a mighty kick. However, when the time of the birth grew nigh, Nimueh reminded Uther of the price that had to be paid.”

Arthur sits paralysed, unable to breathe. He understands all too well where this is going. His mind is icy cold. He sees his beautiful mother before him, her white-golden hair bound up, her shoulders lithe and hands delicate and cool. It cannot be the truth, because then … then …

Gaius’ brow has darkened with recollection. “Perhaps Uther though that when the time came, he would be able to choose the life to be given, but that is not always the way it goes. In the end, destiny wanted differently.”

“I killed her,” Arthur whispers, the words falling from his mouth before he can swallow them.

Gaius turns abruptly. “Arthur, no. Never think that.”

“But if I hadn’t been born-”

“You were an infant! You had no choice in the matter.” Gaius surprises him all over again by pulling Arthur into a hug, right there on the bench. To think of doing such a thing to the ruler of a nation. “Oh, Arthur, you cannot blame yourself for this.”

Arthur blinks stubbornly against the hot prickling sensation behind his eyes. “I was told magic killed my mother.”

Gaius pulls back, but they remain turned towards each other on the bench. “It did, but not because it, or the people who used it, were evil.”

“My father did not see it that way.”

Gaius’s eyes drift off again. “It was a slaughter the likes of which Albion had not seen for centuries. The fires burned constant in the courtyard for days at the time.”

Arthur thinks back to the horrors he can remember from his youth. The druid camp. The executions. The fear. He thinks of the horrors he is too young to remember, but that must invade Gaius’ dreams frequently.

“It was a mistake,” Arthur says kindly. “Too many innocent lives were lost. It was ... gruesome.” He waits for a beat, allows Gaius his memories, but there was a point to this story, and Arthur doesn’t think they have reached it, for all that it has remade his world already. “However, the past is the past, and you cannot protect Emrys indiscriminately because of what happened then.”

“I do not,” Gaius says, and the pride returns to his eyes, if more gently. “If I believed for a moment that Emrys’ intentions were less than good, or that he was about to do the wrong thing, for whatever reason, I would come to you immediately, but until then, I will give my life before I betray him.”

The depth of Gaius’ loyalty is moving, Arthur can only mumble, “Why?”

Gaius looks away, and his voice sounds strange, strained, as he answers. “Because when the executions began, I ran to the King, and before the court I renounced magic as wicked and corrupting.” He pauses. “I wanted to live. I watched my friends and colleagues burn. Healers and tinkerers, students and novices, the black and the white practitioners. They died screaming, and I stood by and did nothing.”

Arthur reaches out towards that bent shoulder again, but pulls his hand back before it can land. He doesn’t know what to say, until he suddenly does. “But you’ve made up for it. You were always there to calm my father when he was blinded by anger, too stubborn to see reason. You always argued for caution, and mercy. And as physician, you must have saved as many as were lost.”

Gaius smiles, nods his gratitude. “I would like that to be the truth. I know only that in my old age, the gods saw fit to send Emrys to me, giving me a chance to redeem myself, and I will not spurn that gift. As long as he has need of me, I am his.”

“Gaius.” Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t think you understand what your magical friend is doing.”

Gaius frowns. “I understand that he is trying to win freedom for his people.”

“Then why not save Mordred? He must have known how that would hurt me. How is this cruelty meant to show me a different side to magic and its users?”

Gaius actually groans with frustration. “Once again, Sire, I will not speak for Emrys. Know only that he has his reasons.”

“That’s not good enough,” Arthur says regretfully. “Gaius, tomorrow at the latest, I have to convene the Table, and explain to all my knights and advisors why we will not be mounting a full scale manhunt for the sorcerer who continues to flaunt my law. Tell me how I am supposed to justify that healing magic was used to save my life, when I am denying the same cure to hundreds of ailing across my kingdom?”

Instead of answering him, Gaius regards him curiously. “If I may ask, Sire, why _won’t_ you be mounting a manhunt?”

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. “Another excellent question. How about you give me one good reason not to.”

The corner of Gaius’ mouth quirks up in a fit of dark humour. “It would be a waste of time and manpower. Emrys is the most powerful sorcerer in Albion, perhaps the most powerful man of our time: your knights would not catch him.”

Arthur glares. Glares until Gaius stops smiling, at least. “This is not funny. He is making a hypocrite out of me, and weakening my authority as King.”

“He means well.”

“So you keep saying, and yet you will not reveal his motives to me. Fine. If you will not speak for him, then he must speak for himself. I need to meet with him, Gaius, and soon.”

Gaius looks like he is about to protest, so Arthur interrupts before he can.

“Do not pretend that you have no means of communicating with him. Tell him I mean to speak to him, Gaius, and if he refuses to show, I will have no choice but to ban him from Camelot upon pain of death.”

Finally, Gaius merely bows his head, acquiescing.

Arthur stands, sways a bit on his feet and feels sleep stealing over him again.

“Perhaps you should return to bed, Sire.” Gaius suggests, standing as well and supporting Arthur with a hand on his arm.

Arthur nods. He wonders if Merlin is still in bed, and longs to find it so, to be able to tiptoe across the cold floor and slip underneath the warm covers, curl around Merlin and drift off with their mingled breaths for a lullaby.

Arthur goes to Mordred and sweeps an errant curl from the boy’s forehead. “Wake and be healed, Mordred. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Take comfort, Sire,” Gaius says, “in that whatever happens next, it is the will of destiny.”

“Destiny is never comforting, Gaius,” Arthur replies, and leaves the physician to his pale patient.


	20. Relentless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emrys' secret is revealed.

The castle thrives with life, busy like a beehive. Arthur breathes it in, and closes his eyes as the familiarity of the scents and sounds sweeps through him. The Midwinter festival is in only a week’s time, and for the first time this year he feels the thrill of anticipation, as if he is a child again and going crazy wondering what his presents will be. In the air is the sharp, green tang of pine, the dusty smell of decorations newly emerged from the bottoms of chests, and from the kitchens drifts a warm, tantalising hint of roasting and baking. The preparations have been going on for at least a week already, but having awoken, not just from a brush with death, but sprung as a new man from Gaius’ sickroom, Arthur notices all these things as if they are new.

On the griffin landing, a group of girls are decorating a tree, and someone has tied a red ribbon around the griffin’s neck.

He manages to pretend that he is fine until he gets to a miraculously empty corridor. There is an alcove with a window and he winds up there, pressing his face against the glass and fighting to breathe, as his life is rewritten backwards, to the moment of his conception, not a union of love as he has always believed, but a ritual. Nimueh created him, placed him in the Queen’s womb to take his life from her like some ... No, he cannot go down that path. If he allows himself to think like that he will despair. Arthur looks down at his hands, and wonders that each nail, each hair, is made from magic, but when he tightens his hands into fists, he feels the calluses on his palms, where the skin has been toughened by years of hard work with the sword. It helps him calm down.

The sound of people approaching reaches his ears, and he composes himself quickly, taking off down the corridor towards his room.

Gwaine always says that a man’s actions determine who he is. How he lives his life is more important than whether he was born in a bed or a barn. Arthur believes, must believe, that he would have lived his life the same, if he had been made of the stuff everyone else is made of. He must believe that being magic does not make him the puppet of magic.

By the time he reaches his room, he is no longer sleepy, just tired. He hopes fiercely that Merlin is still asleep, so that Arthur doesn’t have to explain anything or deal with anything or think at all for a while longer. Arthur opens the door just enough to slip through.

He needn’t have bothered to be careful. Merlin is up, and he is not alone. He and Guinevere are on opposite sides of the room: Merlin loitering by the window, watching uncomfortably as Guinevere struggles to change the bed, the old bedclothes pooled around her feet. The air in the room is thick with awkward silence.

Arthur’s hopes for a long morning in bed die.

They both stop to look at him when he enters, and for a moment they are all staring at each other. Then Guinevere curtseys at him for some fool reason, like she hasn’t done for years, and Merlin, as surprised by it as Arthur, hurries to bow, a stiff, half-formed motion.

Arthur looks from the one to the other. “Has something happened?” he asks. Gwen flat out ignores him, turning back to the bed. Merlin bites his lower lip and looks at her like he wants badly to relieve her of the job, but doesn’t dare to.

Arthur dares. “Guinevere, that is not your job,” he says, crossing the room to her, and taking hold of the new sheet that she is trying to drag across the mattress. She fights him for it, her shoulder bumping into his chest as he tries to get a hold on her.

“George isn't feeling well,” she says, voice thick and foreign, “So I thought I could-. I thought ...” Her voice grows increasingly agitated, until Arthur manages to pull the sheets out of her trembling hands. She immediately walks over to the wall and stands there awkwardly with her arms around herself.

He follows her. “Gwen, what is this-?”

The first sob stops him in his tracks. She covers her mouth with both hands and tries to smother the sound of the second and the third.

Arthur looks over his shoulder at Merlin, who gestures to himself and to Arthur, and to the bed. He looks tired and unhappy. ‘She knows,’ he mouths.

Arthur takes a deep breath and releases it in a long, silent sigh. Then he firms his jaw, reaches out and pulls Guinevere resolutely out of her huddle, and into his arms. He holds her tight against his body, and strokes her hair while she breaks down and sobs helplessly into his shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I don't know what else to say.”

She shakes her head, but can’t speak yet, and so Arthur just holds her for a while, stroking the nape of her neck. She has braided her hair and twined it around her head, leaving only a few loose curls to frame her face. In her simple dress, she looks years younger. Sweet like a girl.

“I'm so h-happy that you solved things ... between you,” she says eventually, resting her forehead against his breast, voice sore and small. “I don't know why I ... I mean, I was really hoping you would ... It's not like I have any right-.” Her voice breaks, and she shuts her mouth quickly, fresh tears spilling from her tightly closed eyes.

Arthur cups her cheek and makes her look up at him. He kisses her temple. “You will always be my love, and if I am still yours then I think it does us credit. You have every right.”

Merlin makes a tight, pained sound. He stands alone in the middle of the floor, watching them hungrily, fearfully. He looks like he wants to bolt.

“Come here,” Arthur says, and it comes out rough. He extends a hand, but Merlin looks uncertain, looks to Gwen, and doesn't come.

So she adds her hand. “Come, Merlin.”

And now Merlin comes, taking both their hands and pressing them to his chest. “I wouldn't come between you,” he says fiercely, not looking at them. “If you wanted to try again.” And that's just so typical him: sacrificing everything, denying himself.

Gwen seems to think the same, and shares a knowing smile with Arthur through her tears. “It's too late for that.”

Merlin frowns, blinking fast as his eyes grow shiny. Guinevere pulls him in for a hug, murmuring comforting nonsense. Arthur extends his embrace so he is holding them both. It feels strange, to have his arm around Merlin's waist, to feel him stand so close without them having been driven to the intimacy by cold, or fear or necessity. It feels good. He wishes he could have them both, the boy and the girl. The familiar scents of their bodies sting deliciously in his throat, better than pine and smoking fires, and the warmth of them sink into his bones and heal him. Magic did not make him who he is today. The two people in his arms did.

“When Arthur asked me to make my choice,” Gwen whispers to Merlin. “We talked about Lancelot, and how he would always be with us. That it would be a marriage of three. And we didn't talk about you at all, because Arthur was too shy to admit to me how much he loved you.”

Arthur's face goes hot and red, while Merlin lights up like it's his birthday. Really, was that necessary?

“Guinevere,” Arthur singsongs, warningly.

Oh, but now they have matching grins, and Arthur feels himself outnumbered and in trouble.

“Our King has trouble sharing his feelings. You should have heard him going on about you before you confessed to each other,” Merlin says. “I had to fill in half his sentences with my imagination.”

“I am right here,” Arthur reminds them helpfully.

But Merlin has selective hearing at the best of times.

“It's a wonder he's done so well for himself, considering how much of a constipated prat he is.”

Guinevere smothers laughter against Arthur's shirt.

“You are not getting any presents from me this year,” Arthur says. His tone is _not_ sullen.

But he catches Merlin's eyes, and there is so much love there, and happiness. Arthur finds himself swallowing around a dry throat. For a long moment he can't look away, actually can't move, and when he tears away at last, Guinevere is watching them, happy and sad at the same time.

She takes a step back, removing herself from their embrace, catches their falling hands and joins them together. “It seems unfair that we should all be so unhappy because of an excess of love.” She sighs, but a moment later she lifts her chin and is firm and steady like a rock. “I was given a choice, and that, Arthur Pendragon, was the greatest gift anyone has ever given to me.” She smiles bravely. “And I am very happy. For myself, and for you both.”

Merlin fidgets in place. “Can I hug you again before we remember that I'm just a servant?”

This time, Arthur steps back, giving them room. He has a sudden memory of seeing their dark heads bent together in secret exchanges, their light feet running across the courtyard, solemn eyes watching him side-by-side from a crowd. He remembers the time Merlin tried to confess to sorcery to save Gwen.

Years later, Emrys would do the same. Gwen inspires compassion in everyone ... except Uther, Arthur's blind, grieving father.

Arthur clears his throat. “I ... I have something I need to tell you both.” Adrenaline and fear rushes in, but he needs to share this with his dearest companions. They will not judge him. They will understand how raw, how small he feels in the wake of Gaius' revelation.

They separate, and look at him expectantly. Arthur tries to smile reassuringly, but it comes out tremulous. “It's sort of a long story.”

They sit by the fireplace, Merlin on the rug, Arthur and Guinevere in the chairs. Guinevere's hand is warm and solid in Arthur’s as he slowly recounts the story Gaius told him.

When he done, there is a pause.

“I was the King’s champion in the fight against magic,” Arthur says. “Each victory strengthened our belief that swords and sweat, and the King’s law were more powerful than spells and potions. The wisdom of healers was considered a fair price to pay for ridding our land of deviant sorcerers and devouring dragons.” He swallows bile. “How my father boasted of me. His bloodhound. While all along, the thing he was celebrating was a creation of the enemy. And he knew.”

But Guinevere shakes her head. “I will no longer believe that magic is evil, if it created you.” She leans forward, insistently. “Arthur, you are who you are, and Camelot has never known such peace and prosperity as under your rule. Whether man or magic, you have done well.”

Arthur figures he must have done something right, since life granted him this angel at his side.

But Merlin is silent. He sits with his back to the chairs, looking into the fire, shoulders raised and tense. Arthur knows the way Merlin looks when he has been caught red handed stealing from Arthur’s plate, or when he is bursting with criticism but knows he isn’t allowed to speak. This is not like those times. This is a different kind of guilt and restraint, of a niggling, but unplaceable familiarity.

“Whatever you knew,” Arthur says to those shoulders and the back of that dark head. “Whatever you have kept from me ... I don't want to know it, Merlin. I understand that Gaius is like a father to you, and that you are loyal to him. I will forgive him, in time, and I forgive you now. Gaius told me he did his best to keep you in the dark, and I have accepted his word.”

Merlin grows smaller, and it doesn't matter how much muscle he has put on in the past three years, how far he has come from the scrawny puppy that used to stumble his way around Arthur's chambers, he is still just a boy underneath it all. A boy who cannot bear to be guilty.

It provokes Arthur, makes his voice harder. “What I cannot bear is another lie. Not one more, Merlin. Not from Gaius, not from anyone. Do you understand?”

Merlin doesn’t move.

“Do you understand me, Merlin?”

Merlin nods, jerkily.

Arthur sighs, falling back in his chair like he has fought a battle. “Get me some clothes, will you?”

Merlin scrambles up and away without meeting Arthur’s eyes.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Guinevere asks. “Both of you?”

Arthur looks at her with raised eyebrows.

Her eyes widen. “I didn’t mean-! You should be resting. Merlin has a fever, and you ... you ...” She opens and closes her mouth while Arthur struggles not to grin. “Arthur Pendragon, you know what I meant.”

He laughs. “I promise not to overexert myself ... or Merlin.”

She rolls her eyes, but smiles as she rises from the chair. “I will leave you to dress, my lord.” He takes her hand as she moves away, and they share a look, affirming that they are alright, or at least will be, in time. Arthur cannot say he faults her for having chosen freedom, when the choice was offered her. She had been so surprised, as if no one had ever asked her if she had any dreams of her own before.

And Arthur, for his endurance of the pain of losing her, and for his later generosity to her, has been rewarded with Merlin. Difficult, remarkable, foolish Merlin, who is currently pausing in the act of selecting a shirt for Arthur, to receive a peck on the cheek and some secret words from Gwen.

She leaves. For a while there is only the sound of Merlin rummaging in the wardrobe. Then he comes over with the clothes, starts to lay them out on the table.

Arthur waits to be called.

What comes first is something else, though. “What will you ask Emrys, when you meet him?” Merlin asks quietly.

Arthur snorts. “Many, many, many questions. We’ll start with his life story, the full extent of his powers, and what the hell he thinks he is doing in my kingdom.” He counts off on his fingers. “But most importantly,” he says, his heart aching as he thinks of the pale boy in Gaius’ sickroom. “I intend to demand that he heal Mordred.”

Merlin stops what he is doing. “Heal Mordred?”

Arthur realises Merlin probably isn’t aware of what happened yesterday. He rises, comes over to the table. “I wasn’t the only one injured,” he says, fingering the thick, red jacket that Merlin has spread out on the table. “Mordred took a blow to the head when he fell from his horse. His other wounds are healing, but he won’t wake. Gaius says all we can do is wait.”

Merlin’s face is white, the clothes he is still holding forgotten. The room, Arthur, all the world seems to have disappeared for him as he stares, unseeing, into the fire in the hearth. Arthur wonders. He knows from speaking with Mordred that he and Merlin don’t get along very well. Is Merlin afraid he won’t get the chance to change that? Arthur grips Merlin’s shoulder, catches his eyes and brings him back to the present.

“Don’t worry, Merlin. Emrys can heal Mordred, and he will, or his stay here in Camelot will come to a very unpleasant end, that I promise you.”

Merlin nods, looking like he didn’t even hear what Arthur said.

“Merlin?”

The bundle of clothes falls unceremoniously to the floor, and Merlin follows, kneeling down and taking Arthur’s hand in his, pressing his forehead to the knuckles.

“What’s gotten into you?” Arthur asks.

Merlin grimaces like he is in pain, rubs his lips against the inside of Arthur’s wrist and presses himself closer, hands sliding up the back of Arthur’s thighs to hold on tight.

Heat rushes through Arthur. He traces Merlin’s lips before giving him his fingers to suck. Merlin takes them with a hungry moan. His mouth is hot like a furnace, and he sucks hard, making Arthur’s very veins tingle with pleasure.

And still, Merlin looks like he is in agony.

Arthur runs his free hand through Merlin’s hair. “What’s this then?” he asks again, gently. “So wanton suddenly.”

Merlin lets go of Arthur’s fingers only to fasten his lips to the front of Arthur’s sleep breeches, opening his mouth wide to take as much as he can of the hard, urgent flesh trapped and held there. Arthur hisses as Merlin’s applies his suck to the thickening root of Arthur’s cock.

He tightens his grip in Merlin’s hair and makes himself pull him back. Merlin’s protest is almost feral, eyes fever-bright as he tugs against the hold, wanting back on his prize, but Arthur holds him still, makes him look up.

“You said you would wait for me,” he reminds Merlin sternly.

Merlin whimpers, nails digging into Arthur’s thighs. He closes his eyes and says in a rush, “I need to be with you.”

Arthur hauls him up and into his arms, holds him hard enough to bruise, one hand still in the boy’s hair. “You are with me.” He rubs their cheeks together, trying to soothe, to gentle the wild, trembling creature in his embrace. Merlin’s skin is burning. “As I am with you.”

They pull back to look at each other. Merlin looks broken.

“Forget what I said earlier,” Arthur says. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Instead, Merlin leans in and kisses him. Merlin’s kisses are sweet. He seems always to start with his lips puckered, like he is seven years old and stealing a kiss from a playmate, but once Arthur get’s his tongue in Merlin’s mouth, it’s all honest need and enthusiasm. Merlin is shameless in greed and inexperience both and it sets Arthur on fire, gets him all ready to conquer. There won’t be any new territory explored today, though; Arthur still isn’t ready. He settles for dominating the kiss, and teaching Merlin what feels good and what feels even better.

Little by little, Merlin melts, until he is quivering with pleasure rather than the strange emotion of before. Only then does Arthur ease back, holding Merlin gently by the throat to keep him from pursuing.

“Strange creature,” he says affectionately, and gives Merlin one more peck on the lips.

Merlin scrunches up his nose in dissatisfaction. “Tease.”

Arthur laughs. “Me? You were rubbing yourself all over me just a moment ago.”

“I would have followed through,” Merlin says stubbornly.

Arthur growls and tightens his hand around Merlin’s throat, leaning in. “Who says I won’t follow through?”

Merlin struggles to swallow, going limp in Arthur’s hold, while red fills his cheeks. This has always been a contradiction in Merlin; most of the time, he responds to authority like a cat takes a bath, but other times he will lap up Arthur’s commands like cream. Arthur decides he might as well take advantage while it lasts.

“Get my clothes up off the floor, _Mer_ lin, and there had better not be a wrinkle on them.”

Sure enough, Merlin’s eyes darken like he _loves_ it, and he is swiftly back on his knees when Arthur lets him go.

Getting the clothes _on_ proves to be a process full of distractions, but not unpleasant such. It just means it takes a little longer before Arthur can pull his boots on and put his arms into the sleeves of his thick, red jacket. Merlin steps back to admire his work, while Arthur waits with a lifted eyebrow.

“Satisfied?”

“Not from so little, Sire,” Merlin replies cheekily. It’s true, they are both in a bit of a state, but Merlin is calmer than he was, at least; Arthur’s promise seems to have gotten through to him.

Arthur gets his sword belt off the table and thrusts it into Merlin’s hands. “Patience, Merlin, have you heard the term?”

Merlin helps Arthur on with the belt, and goes to get his sword to hand by his side. “I’m just a poor servant, my lord, I don’t speak any foreign languages.”

There is a knock on the door.

“Come.”

The door is barely opened before Galahad comes running through, trailing what looks to be a blue curtain from his little fists. Princess Elena follows him. She stops to curtsey, and Merlin bows to her, but Galahad feels no such necessity, and runs right up to Merlin to hold out the curtain to him.

Merlin takes it slowly.

It’s a cloak, Arthur realises. It has a hood of sorts, but mostly there are just yards and yards of ornately embroidered, blue fabric.

“That looks familiar,” Arthur mumbles. He feels it with his fingers, and wrings his mind to remember where he is has seen it before.

Elena takes Galahad on her hip. “Emrys wore it last night, when he met us on the road. Galahad must have found it somewhere. I thought we should bring it to you.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. Yes, this is the same material of the clothes he wore in Caerleon, but there was no such cloak in that ensemble. 

“Galahad,” Arthur says, trying not to sound too shaken. “Can you show me where you found this?” There is a rushing in his ears, grim excitement making his heart pound.

The boy nods enthusiastically and wiggles out of his mother’s grasp. He grabs Arthur's hand, and almost pulls him to his knees in his eagerness to get going. Arthur follows as best he can, startled by the contrast of the child's soft little hand with the memory of Merlin's large, slender one. They have a similarly strong grip, though.

“Merlin, you should stay,” Arthur says in the doorway. “Your fever isn’t down yet.”

“I’m coming with you,” Merlin says, and something in his voice keeps Arthur from arguing.

Once in the hallway, Elena coaxes Galahad to let Arthur go by offering the child her own hand instead. Fair and light-footed, mother and child lead Arthur and Merlin towards the South Wing.

Galahad doesn't hesitate for a moment, descending staircases and weaving left or right down hallways. Finally, he turns a corner and takes off at a run, stopping in front of an open door. There is nothing remarkable about the room beyond. Arthur steps inside and looks around. It's simply an abandoned room, stacked with all kinds of old and useless things, but there is a clear track in the dust from where the cloak has been dragged across the floor.

“I don't understand,” Arthur says to the room at large. “Why would he leave it here?” The unbroken dust on everything else suggests that if Emrys was here, he didn't linger, but then again, for all Arthur knows, the old man could have replaced the dust with magic. The trail from the cloak must come from when Galahad found it.

“It is rather conspicuous,” Elena comments, taking the cloak from Merlin and holding it up. “This is not a tailor's work.”

Arthur agrees. The thing looks bizarre, the length of the hem uneven without being broken, and the hood protruding from the edge like an afterthought. It is also far too big to be convenient.

“Once he was inside, perhaps it was easier to hide without the cloak than with it?” Elena suggests.

Arthur shakes his head. “How could he hide? All my guards have his description. Many of my knights have met him in person, or seen him from afar. With or without the cloak, he would have been stopped.”

He looks to Merlin, but Merlin just shakes his head mutely. For once, he has nothing to offer.

Arthur has a thought. This wing lies far from the entrance hall, and Emrys certainly did not enter that way, but there is another way in, one few are aware of. “He must have used the crypt to get inside,” he says to Merlin.

Merlin looks momentarily startled, then lapses into a sort of helpless shrug. Arthur frowns, and raises an eyebrow to ask, again, what is wrong, while Galahad distracts his mother by playing hide and seek under the cloak.

Merlin shakes his head, swallows. “Yeah. He must have.”

Arthur leads the way when they leave the room, with Galahad skipping along beside him. The child seems tireless. Arthur on the other hand feels restless, jittery. Emrys is here. He might be in the castle right now, hiding somewhere. But why? How does he go unnoticed? How many tricks does the crazy old goat have?

And if he can come and go in the castle as he pleases, why not stay in the forest, rather than inside, where he must take pains to hide and disguise himself?

Arthur stops abruptly. “Your Majesty ...”

Elena cocks her head, waits for him.

“Even with the cloak, there was never any doubt that it was Emrys who saved me. We all knew it was him, and Gaius didn't pretend otherwise either. So why did he disguise himself in the first place? Why wear the cloak at all?”

It seems like a monstrously important question all of a sudden.

“Maybe he was cold?” Merlin supplies, and of course, when he finally opens his mouth it's to say something stupid.

Arthur grabs a handful of the cloak, which is back in Merlin's arms. “This thing wouldn't keep you warm in the summer.”

They have stopped again, so Arthur paces between the walls. “Why does a man disguise his appearance, when his identity is not in question?”

“Come on,” Merlin says sullenly. “We should go look at the crypt.”

Galahad is already at the next corner, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

They come to the stairs. The handful of guards they pass all straighten up in alarm when they see the King. Arthur walks by without comment; he would slouch too if he had to stand guard in an empty corridor all day. The little party descends until they reach the crypt. The light from Arthur’s torch reveals a wide path through the dust, same as in the room above.

“The cloak must have trailed on the floor,” Arthur mumbles as they walk towards the light at the end of the tunnel.

“It was certainly long enough,” Elena comments. “He was none to steady on his feet, though.” The trail careens wildly from one of the tunnel to the other, like Emrys was drunken, or exhausted.

Arthur shrugs. “He is an old man, and from what I have been told, he performed an impressive feat of magic, healing me.”

“Old man?” Elena has stopped.

“Yes.” She wouldn't know, of course, because of the cloak. “He's old. Long white hair, long white beard, and the rest of him is all bent and wrinkly. Think curmudgeon.” While in Caerleon he was willing to grant Emrys greater depth, he is beginning to think the man's mood swings are actually down to insanity.

“The sorcerer last night was not old,” Elena says. “He rode like a young man, easy in the saddle, and though I could not see his face, I would have seen if he had a beard.”

For a long moment, Arthur can't speak. He looks at Merlin, and their eyes share between them the enormity of this information.

“Merlin,” Arthur says carefully.

Merlin shakes his head. He looks as surprised by this as Arthur is. Arthur gives him a hard look, and Merlin trembles like a fawn, but he has been like this all morning.

“I thought he was old,” Merlin says finally, voice little more than a whisper. “I haven’t seen him more than a couple of times.”

“Are you absolutely certain of this?” Arthur asks Elena.

She nods calmly. “Dagonet will confirm it. Old men do not ride like he did.”

Arthur breathes in carefully. “So that’s what he was hiding underneath the cloak. Disguising the lack of disguise.” He turns to Merlin so abruptly that Merlin startles and almost drops the cloak. Arthur rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, Merlin, you’re not going back to the stocks. I want to call the round table immediately. Invite Lord Caradoc as well, if he feels up to it, and I have to see Dagonet to confirm Princess Elena's account. Use any and all knights you meet to get the word out.”

Merlin stands stiffly, like the barrage of orders is threatening to topple him.

“Well, hop to it!” Arthur says.

Merlin turns, steps on the trailing hem of the cloak and almost falls before he gets his feet under him and is on his way back down the corridor.

“And Merlin!”

Merlin stops and looks back. Arthur can't make out his face in the darkness.

“Return to me as quickly as you can.”

Standing in the open entrance at the other end of the tunnel, Galahad reaches his chubby little hands towards the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See what I did there with Galahad at the end? Oh yeah, I am so clever. Arthurian scholars represent!


	21. The fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur summons the Round Table, but the meeting is interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am late mostly because of real life reasons, but also because the chapters have gotten harder and harder to put together as the plot progressed towards its peak. Things are happening fast, and it's hard to keep track of character actions and motivations. I have also fought to give more screentime to a lot of characters, Mordred especially, and also Elyan, and even Gwaine, but most of my attempts have come across as forced, and I have had to give them up and let the story go where it will rather. You'll have to decide for yourselves if the final result is worth anything. The next chapter will be out a lot quicker than this one.

There have been times in the past when Gaius and Merlin were certain that their secrets were about to be discovered. When the only solution seemed to be to throw themselves at Uther’s mercy, and more recently, at Arthur’s. What they feel now, as they embrace each other amidst the familiar furniture of their home, is more like inevitability. Everything that has happened since Arthur went to Ismere to rescue his men, has led them all, stumbling and rushing, closer to the edge of the cliff.

As Merlin stands at the foot of Mordred’s cot and studies the boy’s unreadable, sleeping face, he can feel a mighty wind roaring at his back, threatening at any moment to topple him into the abyss. There is nothing remarkable about Mordred’s face; no violence in the sweep of his lashes, no rage in the soft line of his jaw, but in his open, resting hands lies the strength that will wield the sword that will send Arthur to his knees. When Mordred’s eyes open, Arthur’s will close, and for all his innocence now, Mordred is certainly capable, both of the steely determination and the impassionate fury that Merlin saw in the vision; he has seen it before, when Mordred was a child. Everything points towards the same end. Kilgharrah was right, years ago, when he said Mordred must not be allowed to live.

Merlin lifts his hand, fingers curling, like he would smash Mordred to a pulp with his bare fists.

“I should just ... I should just ...”

For what other solution is there? When has Merlin ever managed to divert destiny from its path?

Gaius’ hands, infinitely patient, kind and capable, settle on his shoulders. “Merlin, look at him. He is as much a victim of his destiny as you and Arthur. You are brothers.”

“What do you suggest then?” Merlin asks, even as Gaius takes his trembling hand in both of his and pulls it down. “Should I do nothing?”

Gaius does not answer immediately. “I think we ought to focus on our most pressing problem: how to keep the King from discovering your true identity.”

Merlin shakes his head. “I’m not sure we can. When the news spreads that Emrys is a young man, everyone will start looking around, judging, speculating. All it will take is for one person to let their eyes linger on me, to imagine for a moment that I might be him. Then all the pieces will fall into place.”

Gaius sighs. He sits down heavily on a chair next to Mordred. There is a basin of water placed nearby, and the physician takes from it a cloth, wrings it out and uses it to dab Mordred’s brow. It makes Merlin’s insides crawl with anger to see his mentor take such care of Arthur’s murderer, but he says nothing; he knows that Gaius cannot judge Mordred the way Merlin does, because Gaius does not love Arthur the way Merlin does. No one loves Arthur like Merlin. He knows that it makes him cruel, and it scares him. Did Morgana’s fall begin this way, with the same desperate need?

“I do not believe it will be that simple,” Gaius says finally, his silence having been spent thinking carefully. Then he looks up at Merlin’s face, and, alarmed, he leaves Mordred’s side. “You frighten me, my boy. You look half wild.”

Merlin shakes his head, looks away. “Sorry.”

Gaius pats him on the shoulder, a little awkwardly. “It’s been a difficult couple of days. You _should_ be resting, but there’s no need to give me that look; I won’t try to prescribe you what I know you will refuse to take. Besides, I think you need to be by Arthur’s side when he speaks to the round table. As for your secret, do not forget, Merlin, that in their eyes, you are only Arthur's servant. Even for those who know you well, it would be quite a leap to imagine you as the most powerful sorcerer of our time. Not to mention, they would have to accept that you've kept the wool pulled over their eyes for years. Few men are humble enough to think themselves so easily fooled. If we are lucky, it will seem so farfetched that the idea won’t even enter their minds.”

Merlin nods slowly. “But what will you do,” he asks. “If the worst happens today?”

The old man ponders for a moment. “I like to believe that I would stay and face the King's judgement, and I can only hope that my long service to him and to Uther will earn me some mercy.”

“I would never let them hurt you,” Merlin promises.

“I know. Thank you.” Gaius smiles. “Now, you had better go summon the knights, as you were supposed to. Meanwhile, I will try to come up with a plan. It will take a couple of hours to get everyone together, so there is still time.”

On his way out, Merlin stops, and looks back at Mordred. Sunlight is standing down from the window high on the wall, haloing Mordred like a holy knight in a tapestry.

 _“If my secret is discovered today, I will come back for you,”_ Merlin thinks. Perhaps that is the true nature of the abyss before his feet; a fall like the one Morgana took. But it is worth the fall, to save Arthur. _“There is nothing I will not do.”_

Almost two hours later, Gaius catches up with Merlin on his way to the throne room. The physician has the cloak with him. The knights have been assembled from horseback, bed and training room, and most of them will be seated at the table by now.

“I have a plan,” the old man murmurs, handing the cloak over to Merlin.

“What is it?” Merlin asks eagerly, having not come up with a single solution himself, for all that he has wrung his tired, frightened mind.

But Gaius shakes his head. “I believe it will work best if you do not know. Just remember what we decided earlier: you have only actually met Emrys once or twice, and then only when he was an old man.”

Merlin had told Gaius everything that had happened this morning, as well as described his visions from last night, and explained his decision to go undisguised to meet Arthur’s party on the road, in order that he might have strength enough for the healing spell. They had quickly decided that they needed to make up a single story that kept Merlin as far from Emrys as possible. Gaius had already admitted to Arthur that he knew the old man, of course, but if anyone asked, their story would be that Emrys rarely came to see Gaius at his home, and when he did, it was always at night, or when Merlin was away with Arthur. It seemed logical enough that Gaius would do his best to keep his beloved ward out of his own treasonous affair, although there was no getting around that Merlin must at least have known that it was going on. Regardless, it seems that Arthur is not as concerned with who had known whom, or even consorted with whom, as he is with Emrys’ actions and intentions.

The throne room is busy. Chairs scrape across the floor as knights in trailing capes find their seats, and servants run around with goblets and pitchers of wine. There are more knights than there are chairs today, and though additional seats are being brought in, some will have to stand. Elena and Guinevere are seated already, next to each other on what will be Arthur’s left hand side. Caradoc is filling two seats on Arthur’s eventual right.

Arthur himself is standing off to the side with Sir Leon. Merlin parts from Gaius with a last look and a nod that means more than words, and goes to his lord. He has a second to wonder what Arthur’s narrowed eyes mean before Arthur’s sword hand shoots out and grabs Merlin cruelly by the neck, dragging him closer and shaking him.

“I thought I told you to return _quickly_ ,” Arthur says through closed teeth. “Didn’t it penetrate your thick skull at all, or did the breeze blow it in one ear and out the other?”

Fear and lust mingle to create dark heat in Merlin’s stomach. He shudders, goosebumps racing across his skin “I was unaware that my lord needed me that badly,” he hears himself replying, voice low.

Arthur pushes him away with a huff, but his pupils are dilated, his eyes hungry, affirming. “What I need is a competent servant.”

Merlin rubs his smarting neck. “Or a good spanking.”

“I’m glad to see you are friends again.” Leon says. He smiles at Merlin. “His majesty has been an absolute pain without you to manage him.” 

Arthur’s jaw drops in outrage, even as his face colours. “Leon!”

The knight clears his throat. “I’ll just go sit down.” He winks as he leaves, though.

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest and pouts. “I was not a pain.” He glances at Merlin.

Merlin ducks his head, smiling despite everything. He can’t help himself; being with Arthur, knowing they are confessed to each other, makes him giddy with happiness, like he is some besotted girl. “Sounds like you made yourself sick with missing me,” he says.

Arthur makes a move as if he would grab him again, but he restrains himself. He gives Merlin a tight and somewhat threatening smile, but after a moment, his eyes soften, as does his mouth. Merlin’s licks his own lips, remembering kisses. Arthur draws a quick breath and looks away, as if he needs to compose himself. He looks out over the crowd of men whose swords are pledged to him. The men whose violence and mercy he is the master of.

“You know, sometimes I almost wish we could trade places, you and I. You could rule the country, and I could scrub floors and polish boots.”

Merlin scrunches up his nose. “I’d be a rubbish ruler.”

Arthur nods. “True. I, on the other hand, would no doubt discover myself a superior floor-scrubber.” The jest is lost as pain and uncertainty flickers in his expression. He glances at Merlin like there is something he wants to say, but can't.

Merlin wants to comfort him. Wants to tell him that he is still Arthur, royal prat extraordinaire, and that being born of magic has nothing to do with that. Neither his bravery nor his wisdom are of magical origin.

Instead, Merlin exaggerates a sigh. “Well, you'll find out soon enough, I suppose. Until George can return to duty, you'll be getting your own breakfast, washing your own clothes, and ...” He gives Arthur a sympathetic look. “Scrubbing your own floors, which is actually much harder than it looks.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You think you're the only one who can work on his knees?”

Just like that, desire comes flooding back. Merlin bites his lower lip and fights the urge to push Arthur up against the wall. His intentions must show on his face, because Arthur’s eyes darken again.

“When this is over …” Arthur says, but for all their warm promise, the words make Merlin go cold again.

He bows his head quickly. “I think your men are ready, Sire.”

Arthur’s eyes linger for a moment, before he squares his shoulders and strides to his chair at the round table. Knights and nobles alike quiet down as the King approaches, and those seated rise to receive him. Arthur does not sit down, but gestures graciously for everyone else to do so.

Merlin finds himself inching sideways along the wall, his need to see Arthur’s face fighting his need to be invisible in turn. He tries to catch Gaius’ eyes, but the old man is busy watching Arthur.

For a long moment, Arthur frowns silently at the table top, seemingly gathering his thoughts. A vast stillness fills the great hall, but some of the knights shift restlessly, attuned to their King’s mood.

Finally, Arthur lifts his eyes. They sweep the table. 

“I don’t know how to begin,” the King says at length, his words slow and disconnected. His eyes continue to travel up and down the circle of men. “It seems to me now that the beginning of this story belongs to a time before I was born, when forces beyond our comprehension roamed freely on this island. All my life I believed that they had been curbed, that my father’s iron will and the strength of the knights of Camelot had driven them into the ground.”

“Hear, hear!” Sir Hewen says foolishly, immediately silenced by the oppressive weight of Arthur’s sharp eyes.

“More than that, I believed for a long time that they _should_ be curbed, that magic was a plague, a curse upon the world.” He frowns again, lips curling in frustration. “Perhaps it is. And perhaps we had nearly won the war when Morgana rose against my father. Perhaps the druids, the sorcerers, had nearly been destroyed. Or perhaps they were laughing at us all along.”

Merlin’s heart is beginning to pound harder in his breast. He wants this to be over, for it all to disappear on a stray wind, so that he can take Arthur to bed and kiss him until nightfall. The cliff before his feet seems to echo his heartbeats back to him, promising that the fall will be long. Will Arthur be the one to push him over the edge? Will it happen now?

All it will take is for one pair of eyes to linger, and they will know, and his life will be uprooted, and Arthur will never again look at him with love.

Arthur’s eyes lock on his. “Merlin.”

Merlin startles, dragging the cloak up in front of him like a shield. Arthur’s brow furrows. He extends his hand. “Bring me the cloak.”

It costs him pain to move forward, to draw every eye that way, but he goes. To Arthur.

Arthur takes the cloak and unfurls it in a whirl, throwing it out on the table. “This belongs to a man the druids call Emrys. They say he is the most powerful sorcerer of our time. It is to him that I owe my health today.” Arthur touches his shoulder briefly, like he is remembering the way teeth parted the flesh there. The other hand strays to the edge of the cloak, fingering the light, blue material. “It was found in the castle this morning.”

There are a few gasps, as the brighter of the knights realise the implication.

“In the castle?” Leon echoes. “You mean he is still here?”

Arthur doesn’t answer. He curls his fingers around the edge of the cloak, curls them into a fist. “You will remember him from a few years back, when he took the blame for an enchantment placed upon me that caused me to fall in love with Lady Guinevere.” He looks up at her briefly. “I can tell you now that there was never any enchantment, and yet Emrys took the blame, sparing Guinevere her life.”

“He also attempted, upon my request, to heal my father of his deadly wound, but Morgana, and my treacherous uncle, thwarted the attempt.” He draws breath, steels himself. “Emrys’ services to me cannot be repaid in gold, nor with my blood. He has saved my life, the lives of my loved ones, and even given me my kingdom back when I thought I must surely lose her. As a man, I would welcome Emrys with open arms, into my home and my heart.” He stares and stares at the edge of the cloak, where his thumb is rubbing and rubbing the embroidered cloth.

Leon, ever understanding, comes to his King’s rescue, helping Arthur say the thing that must be said. “The ends do not justify the means, Sire. Emrys has practiced magic within the borders of Camelot. He has broken the law.”

“Yes.” Arthur closes his eyes, a minute sigh of relief ghosting past his lips. Merlin wants to feel that sigh caress his own mouth. He wants to devour and be devoured, to escape the flesh that is standing here invisibly at its own trial.

Arthur speaks, slowly. “Also against him there is the issue of Sir Mordred, who, you will have heard, lies injured in the physician’s chambers. It is unlikely that he will live much longer without the aid of a healer.” The King’s expression hardens. “Emrys denied him that aid, twice. My debt to him means little next to the life of my knight, and he will be made to answer for it.”

He looks around, but no one wants to speak. No one dissents.

“Gaius.”

Gaius does not pretend that he does not know what is coming. “Yes, Sire.” His voice is tired.

Arthur seems to have to fight to turn his head and look at him. “No doubt Merlin has already told you what else we discovered this morning, that apparently, the old man is but the disguise of a younger man. I will have Emrys’ true identity from you now, Gaius, and his whereabouts, or you will be arrested for treason against the crown.”

Merlin takes an automatic step forward, sounds of protest rising.

Arthur’s arm snaps out like a whip, an accusing finger pinning Merlin in place. “DO NOT OPEN YOUR MOUTH!”

Merlin freezes, a chill flooding his body.

Arthur's teeth are clenched, but his eyes are wide, fearful. “I have accepted your word, and Gaius’ word, that you have not been involved. Do not push me.”

Merlin doesn’t move.

Slowly, Arthur lowers his hand, nostrils flaring. “Gaius,” he says, commands, without taking his eyes from Merlin.

The silence is like a weight, pressing Merlin towards the floor. Now. Now it ends.

Gaius folds his hands on the table top. “As for her whereabouts, Sire, I hardly know, for she rarely comes to see me. I suspect she will be sleeping somewhere. The healing spell will have drained her greatly.”

Arthur turns his head in sheer bewilderment.

 _Oh,_ Merlin thinks, unsure if Gaius is being a genius or just digging them into a deeper hole.

“You speak nonsense,” Arthur grits out, and he is at the end of his patience now, that much is clear. “Emrys is a man. It’s a man’s name, for god’s sake!”

Gaius seems to grow calmer the more upset Arthur becomes. “Emrys is a title, given by the druids to their prophesied saviour.”

“Gaius,” Leon interrupts, a glance at Arthur betraying his mounting worry. “Emrys ... the old man ... is a young _woman_?”

Gaius inclines his head. A restless murmur travels around the table.

“Is that even possible?” Sir Sagramore asks. “Transforming oneself from one gender to the other?”

Gwaine has his chin in hand and is rubbing his beard thoughtfully, eyes sharp and interested on Gaius. “That is powerful magic indeed. If it were a lesser sorcerer, I wouldn’t believe it.”

Arthur all but falls into his chair, like his legs won’t hold him up anymore.

“Why, though?” Percival asks. “Who wants to be an old man? In that body, she can’t even mount her horse.”

Gwaine, Leon and Elyan suddenly find great interest in the tabletop.

“He found a way,” Gwaine says eventually, tugging at his hair and not looking at anyone. “With four knights of Camelot between him and the horse too.”

Elyan clears his throat. Percival goes red.

“I understand her,” Princess Elena says suddenly, surprising everyone. “If I could change myself into a man, I would do it every day. Then I wouldn’t need an escort to go riding. I wouldn’t have to rely on others for my protection.” She looks around. “I wouldn’t have to change my clothes for every meal, or wear shoes that hurt my feet. To be a man is to be free.”

Merlin realises with a start that both Elena and Guinevere are wearing different, finer dresses than they did this morning, and that Guinevere has let her hair down.

Absolute, embarrassed silence reigns for a long moment. Merlin isn’t the only one who has barely spared a thought to the chore etiquette must be for the women of the court. He has certainly never considered how little choice they have in the matter, unless they wish to be ostracised.

Leon laughs. “Look how surprised you all are to be reminded there are women at the table. Women who can speak.”

Most of the men have the grace to look shamed.

Guinevere smiles her clever little smile, but puts on a more serious face when she speaks. “If Emrys is the saviour of the druid people, then the changes she is trying to affect are on a political scale. Women are not allowed to make politics.” She looks at Arthur. “Not outside of Camelot, which would also explain why she is here, and not at some other court. And age has always been equated with wisdom. If Emrys is a young woman, then it makes perfect sense that she should disguise herself as an old man.”

“Now you know the truth, my lord,” Gaius says to Arthur.

Arthur’s brows slope down over his blue eyes. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you are spinning further lies.”

It is Gaius’ turn to get angry. “For twenty years I have been torn between the innocent people I betrayed, and the innocent people who now bear the brunt of their revenge. No one wants peace more fervently than I.”

Arthur meets his gaze, and they challenge each other.

“If you cannot believe my words,” Gaius continues, “then believe that my heart is pure. I work for the good of Camelot, and so does Emrys. I have kept secrets from you, Sire, but I would never betray you.”

Arthur expels a frustrated breath through his nose. “Before the king’s law, even the king is but a man.” He stands again and addresses the table. “And yet ... my heart tells me the law must withhold its judgement until all these matters are made clear. If Gaius will give us his word that Emrys will appear before the throne within a fortnight, in his or her natural body, then I will grant Gaius his freedom until then, and I will also grant him the innocence of his heart.”

Merlin looks around. Most of the knights are nodding. His heart flutters, something like hope swooping in his breast, a careening butterfly. He is so nearly safe.

“However, there is a condition to my temporary pardon.”

“Name it,” Gaius says, and Merlin fervently agrees.

“Emrys must heal Mordred.”

Gaius hesitates for just a second too long, and before he is allowed to answer, Arthur slams his hands onto the table.

“WHY IS THIS A PROBLEM?”

Everyone startles back, but not as hard as Merlin, who feels tears stand in his eyes.

Arthur’s frustration has boiled over. “Why must Mordred die? What has he done to make Emrys hate him?”

Gaius grows pale, and closes his eyes like he is terribly weary.

“Does the madman think I will reconsider my opinion on senseless murder along with magic?” Arthur asks, voice loud and unhinged.

Gaius is helpless, for what can he say? The prophecy, and Mordred’s role in it, is so tangled up with Emrys, with Merlin, that it is hard to speak of it without revealing too much. And how would Arthur take the knowledge of his own imminent death? He must be spared.

Arthur snarls furiously, gathers the cloak in his fists, turns around and shoves the garment into Merlin’s chest, and then he freezes, eyes wide, caught on something behind Merlin’s back.

“Mordred?”

Merlin turns around.

In the white light from the closest window, a knight of Camelot is standing, armed and armoured, his red cape hooded, and the hood drawn up, obscuring his eyes. Only his gentle lips, and the dark hair curling against his soft jaw, give away his identity.

“Mordred?” Arthur says again. He steps towards the stark, still figure.

Elyan rises swiftly from his seat and comes around the table. “Do not go near him, Sire. That’s not Mordred. Not in physical form.”

Merlin can feel the very air thrumming with power. Whatever magic Mordred is using, it is incredibly strong.

“Elyan is right,” Gaius says. “This is magic.”

Elyan approaches Mordred cautiously. “Mordred? Can you hear me? Can you speak?”

Gwen stands up anxiously. “Elyan, be careful!”

Mordred does not move, however, one hand resting quietly on the hilt of his sword.

“Is Emrys doing this?” Leon asks, but Gaius shakes his head.

“I do not think so.”

Elyan reaches for the edge of Mordred’s hood, but before he can touch it, it falls back on its own, and Mordred looks up, into Elyan’s eyes.

“There is a shadow lying over me,” the young knight says, voice slow as if he is standing outside of time. “It steals my breath with its weight.”

“You are asleep, Mordred,” Elyan tells him. “You were wounded.”

Mordred nods, eyes narrowing as if he is only now remembering. “That place … It would not suffer itself to be disturbed. The ancient world has mighty defences.” He draws a sharp breath suddenly, perhaps for the first time since he appeared, and urgency lends vitality to his expression. “How is the King? Does he live?”

Elyan takes a step to the side and sweeps his free hand out towards Arthur.

Mordred’s face lights up, and he steps eagerly forward, moving quick as a thought.

Merlin takes a reflexive step forward as well, breath frozen in his chest, heart hammering, but Mordred merely kneels down, and his face is joyful.

Arthur stands rigid, uncertain.

“It’s a miracle,” Mordred says.

“It was magic,” Arthur replies slowly. “Emrys healed me. Mordred, do you know … her?”

For a moment, Mordred’s eyes cloud over with confusion, and Merlin’s fear spikes into panic because this is where Gaius’ clever trick will be proven a lie, and then it really will be over.

“There is a shadow lying over me,” Mordred chants again. “It steals my breath with its weight. I believe she has come to watch me die.”

Arthur tries to catch the young man’s eyes. “Why does she want you dead? Mordred.”

Mordred refocuses. “I want to thank you, Sire. All my life I have lived in shadow. The shadow of Uther’s grasping hand, the shadow of secrecy …” His eyes narrow. “And in the shadow of Emrys’ power. My destiny was never as great, my magic never as strong. Wait for Emrys, they said, Emrys will set us free.”

Merlin feels sick with guilt.

But Mordred’s brow gentles again, and he smiles brilliantly at Arthur. “Only in your company have I stood free of the darkness. For you are the sun, Arthur, and Camelot thrives in your light.”

Arthur coughs, turning red. “Rise, Mordred. Please. I still don’t understand. This is your doing? You have magic? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mordred rises. “Would you have made me your knight if I had, my lord?”

“Magic is banned from my kingdom upon pain of death ... and yet you show only love for me. How?”

Mordred shrugs. “I believed the elders, that it would only be a matter of time before Emrys opened your eyes to the truth.”

“My eyes are opening,” Arthur says. “Slowly. But you said “believed”. You do not believe anymore? Why didn’t Emrys heal you?”

Arthur's insistent question accomplishes Merlin's great fear at last. Awareness flashes in Mordred’s expression. He disappears, only to reappear behind Merlin, who whirls to meet him.

Mordred stands very still, but his eyes hold Merlin’s ruthlessly.

_“I wanted to prove myself to you, but you didn't even give me a chance. I would have been your friend, fought your battles, stood beside you as a brother in secrecy. Why do you shun me? Why do you hate me?”_

The voice rings in Merlin's head, and he flinches at the strength, the desperation and anger in it.

_“I'm sorry! This isn’t what I wanted either. It wasn't my choice, Mordred!”_

_“No!”_ The voice snarls. _“I will be content with your superiority no longer! I know there are answers, and if you will not give them to me, then I will take them.”_

“Merlin?” Arthur places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “What is happening?”

Mordred stretches out a hand, fingers curling, and Merlin cries out as Mordred’s mind pries into his own, burrowing deep in search of his secrets. Merlin has no idea how to stop him. He hears Arthur’s voice, distantly, shouting something.

Unbidden, the red battlefield rises to the forefront of his mind. Upon that bloody plane, Mordred and Arthur face each other eternally. The murder is but the act of a moment. Together, Merlin and Mordred watch as Arthur falls.

Mordred’s ghost reels back, mind gone from Merlin’s, his eyes as wide as the sky. _“No, no that is not my fate!”_ He looks at Merlin, uncomprehending. _“That is NOT MY FATE!”_

Merlin says nothing, for what can he say? And apparently, that is enough.

Mordred howls his despair, draws his sword and throws himself at Merlin, as if he can vanquish foe and fate in a single blow.

Merlin has no chance to react before he is shoved out of the way by Arthur, who has Excalibur in hand.

Mordred’s sword plunges home in Arthur’s abdomen.

For a moment there is absolutely silence.

Merlin screams.

Arthur looks down at himself. Merlin can see his strong frame shaking.

Then Arthur takes a step forward and drives Excalibur into Mordred’s heart in turn.

Mordred coughs bloodlessly. He sinks to his knees.

Before their eyes, Mordred disappears like a mist on the air: hood and chainmail, hide and hair and sword.

Arthur stands. Unharmed.

For a dizzy second Merlin hardly knows himself, but then he is in Arthur’s arms and Arthur is hauling him in, almost off his feet, to clutch at him and breathe him in. Merlin is weeping, his heart racing as it catches up to the peril and the miracle of a scant few seconds.

Leon is ordering men to go to Gaius’ chambers, to see if Mordred is there. Gaius goes with them.

Arthur and Merlin do not let go of each other for a long time.

~

Mordred wakes abruptly and immediately reaches for his chest, but there is no sword wound, only the pains of the old injuries, and a pounding ache in his head. A noise pulls his eyes to the window high above, where the light is being blocked by a creature on the sill outside.

It is a raven. It pecks on the window, impatient. Mordred understands.

She did not come to watch him die, but rather to take him away. Yes, Camelot is no home for him now. Arthur made his choice. No doubt the soldiers are coming for Mordred this very minute.

He thinks of the druid elders, grave and silent. Did they know to what end Mordred was going? Were they grooming him for the cruel task of murdering his King? Bitterness wells up in him. They must have known!

Mordred struggles into a sitting position, pain and fury making him breathe hard.

He will follow the raven, and it will take him to Morgana. He understands her now. He is walking down the same path as she. Cast out by those who claim to love them, what can they do, but let destiny take its course?

The raven raps at the window.

“I come,” Mordred says, and with the tenacity of the lost and the doomed, he pushes himself to his feet, and climbs towards the darkened glass.


	22. Minds and Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their bodies will no longer be denied.

“People like Emrys and Morgana, who are born with their powers, are rare indeed. For Mordred to be like them is deeply troubling. Sorcerers of such power are not born into the world without reason, and I think we can safely say that the destinies of these three cross each other.”

The great hall is nearly empty; most of the knights having been sent to hunt for Mordred. Arthur sits in his chair, with Merlin by his side and Gaius standing before him.

“I fear Camelot will be crushed between them,” Arthur says.

“Perhaps,” Gaius answers. “Each of them, in their own way, is trying to preserve the kingdom. It is not Camelot's well-being, but yours that they disagree on.”

Arthur smiles wanly. He seems hard-pressed to keep his head up, his cares weighing him down. One hand lies seemingly idly on the armrest, but Merlin, standing so close, feels the feather-like touch of Arthur's fingers against his own knuckles, like a silently expressed wish.

“Hopefully, they'll let me celebrate Christmas before they set on me,” the King jokes. There is no laughter. After a moment, Arthur pushes himself up.

Both Gaius and Merlin are quickly supporting him.

“How do you feel, Sire?” Gaius asks, frowning.

“Cold,” Arthur replies, with a hand on his stomach. “Where he stabbed me.” He rights himself and shakes off the helping hands. “How come I could hurt him, but not the other way around?”

“Excalibur is a mighty blade,” Gaius says. “With properties beyond those of ordinary weapons. I would not be surprised if it was forged with magic, or perhaps burnished by a dragon’s fire.”

He does not look at Merlin as he speaks, and Merlin let’s his eyes widen with the awe he would have felt if he had not made the sword himself.

Arthur draws the sword from its sheath. The metal shines as if with inner light. “Magic again. Seems it can no more be banished than rain or wind.” He draws a deep breath and lets it out again. “Enough.” He puts Excalibur away again. “I need to be alone.”

The words hurt Merlin, who, while being as tired as his lord, needs to look after Arthur more than he needs to sleep, or to breathe. But he obediently steps away, giving Arthur some space.

Arthur immediately cuffs Merlin over the back of the head. “Obviously, you're coming, you idiot.”

Gaius clears his throat and refrains from commenting, Merlin rubs his head and tries not to look too relieved.

“Just one more thing,” Arthur says before they go.

Gaius inclines his head expectantly.

“Why did Mordred attack Merlin?”

A thrill of fear seizes Merlin, but he hides his flinch. He has come through the fire, but it is on his heels still, red tongues licking at him. That Mordred did not speak his name out loud is a small miracle.

Gaius shrugs. “I do not know, Sire.” He looks at Merlin. “I am not entirely clear on what happened. However, it might have had something to do with that.” He nods to the cloak that Merlin is for some reason still clutching.

Arthur looks at it thoughtfully. Then he takes it from Merlin and passes it to Gaius. “Remember, Gaius. Within a fortnight,” he says.

Gaius bows.

Arthur steers them, not towards the door at first, but towards Guinevere, who lingers with the few that remain.

He taps her on the shoulder.

“Will you and Leon answer the appeals today? I need-”

“Of course!” Guinevere cups his cheek and smiles with sympathy. “Go, rest. Camelot will make do.”

When Merlin tries to fall in behind Arthur as they leave, Arthur purposefully slows down to prevent him. Side by side, they make their way back to Arthur's chambers. Along the way, Arthur stops a servant and gives orders for food and a bath to be prepared for him.

Word spreads fast below stairs, so by the time Arthur and Merlin reach the royal chambers, there are already a couple of maids waiting by the door. They curtsey, and let both Arthur and Merlin enter first. Merlin feels uncomfortable, and becomes more so when Arthur gestures for him to sit in the second chair by the fire. He usually doesn't mind being less-than-proper with the King, but today it’s like he can feel the maids resenting him for the privileges the King affords him.

Arthur is in a queer mood though, and it isn't worth arguing about.

The girls sweep the tidy the room. Merlin fidgets in his chair. 

Not long after, three men manoeuvre the big tub through the door, rolling it into the middle of the floor. They leave, only to return with more people and endless buckets of steaming water. 

Arthur watches the bustle of the room with an unreadable expression. The stillness of his limbs is, however, not peace, but the product of careful control. It makes Merlin restless. Arthur apparently doesn’t notice the looks they are being cast, but Merlin feels each one.

One of the maids has moved to the bed to finish what Guinevere began this morning. Do they know that Merlin spent the night cradled by that luxurious mattress and those soft pillows? The simple experience has separated him from them by a gulf. He has tasted a different world, one they can barely imagine.

But then, Merlin thinks, he has tasted Arthur, and few in this world, rich or poor, servants or nobility, have had that luxury. So really, a night in the King’s bed shouldn’t matter. Other, greater things separate him from his fellows.

And of course, there’s the whole most-powerful-sorcerer and great-big-dumb-destiny thing. Doesn’t share that with many people either, does he.

Wine is brought in, along with a bowl of apples, plates of bread, bacon and cheese, and little pots of soft yellow butter and sweet sugary treats. Towels are placed near at hand to the tub, and dried, fragrant herbs are crushed and strewn in the steaming water. 

A matronly maid approaches and asks what manner of attire the King wishes them to lay out for him. Arthur looks down at himself and frowns, before waving her away. “Merlin will find me something later.”

Finally, the last bucket is emptied, and the final servant bows his way out. The room is hot from fire and steam, and on every breath is the mouth-watering smell of freshly baked bread and bacon still hot enough to burn your fingers.

“Would you like me to attend you in the bath, Sire?” Merlin asks, a little shaky from before still, but a little eager also.

Arthur jaw works. He is looking away. Finally, he speaks.

“Mordred had magic.”

Mordred had been gone by the time Leon and the soldiers reached Gaius' chambers, clambered through a window, by the looks of it. Despite his injuries, he will probably escape the soldiers searching for him; Merlin does not doubt that destiny will hold a shielding hand over Mordred.

“Why would a sorcerer want to be a knight of Camelot?”

Merlin shrugs. “I think he wanted to be a part of something good.”

Arthur frowns at him, confused. “Are you defending him?”

Merlin ducks his head. “He wasn't a bad person.” Good people can do bad things.

Arthur sits up. “But you didn't like him,” he says insistently. “You get along with everyone, and you did not like him.”

He wants Merlin to confess that he knew about the magic, but Merlin has no intention of doing so. Instead, he gives up another truth, a less dangerous, more embarrassing one.

“You were ignoring me in favour of him. He got all your attention.” He bites the inside of his lower lip, letting the pout come “All your affection.”

He can feel Arthur's gaze soften, and the victory is worth the embarrassment. The jealousy was childish in a way he thought he was too old for. Mordred and been constantly by Arthur's side, trailing after him like an eager puppy, and Arthur had laughed with him, endlessly patient. Merlin had watched them from the shadows, and it had not always been impending doom that had made his insides twist.

“He was a distraction,” Arthur says, voice low. “Everyone else reminded me of you. Mordred came from a different world. It helped me forget.”

Merlin looks up, shocked at the confession.

But trouble returns quickly to Arthur’s expression. “I really cared for him. I was proud of him, proud to call him one of my knights.” He bows his head and rubs his eyes and forehead like he is in pain. “When I discovered Agravaine’s true nature, I thought I had experienced the worst of betrayals. After Guinevere and Lancelot, surely no one could hurt me that way again.” He breathes deeply, like he is keeping himself from crying, but it is hard to tell for sure as long as his face is averted. “Then Gaius ... and Mordred ... and ... you.”

Merlin’s heart pulses softly with pain. He goes down on his knees, shuffles across to Arthur's chair and reaches up to pull his head down. The first kiss lands on Arthur's cheek, the second in his hair, which Merlin is eagerly twining his fingers in. At last, Arthur turns to meet him, and their lips brush.

“Your father believed that loyalty and obedience were the same thing. They are not,” Merlin says, looking into Arthur’s eyes and willing him to understand.

Arthur cups Merlin's neck and strokes the skin there with his thumbs. “Obedience is important. If I can’t trust those closest to me, how can I rule?”

Merlin hesitates. “Your father ... Your father did a lot of good for Camelot, but times have changed. His downfall was his inability to change with them. The laws he left behind ...” This is dangerously close to secret territory for Merlin, and moreover it is dangerously close to insult against Uther, which Arthur will not stand for. Merlin is aware that he is too tired to watch himself as closely as he should.

“Speak, Merlin,” Arthur orders softly.

“... Sometimes I think that you see the world through the ghost of Uther. But you are your own man, and by following your own head you have brought glory and peace to Camelot. Look around with _your_ eyes and see the world for what it is.”

Arthur shakes his head fondly. “Was treason ever spoken from such a pretty mouth? What is the world, then?”

Merlin knows this is his chance. “Full of people who love you so much they will risks their lives against the law for you.”

He thinks Arthur would have been angry, if he had the energy for it right now. Instead, he just tilts his head to the side and considers Merlin. “Gaius is lucky to have such a loyal son.”

“And you’re pretty lucky to have us both,” Merlin jests, poking Arthur in the chest. He leans up and presses a quick peck to Arthur’s lips, before suddenly remembering his promise of this morning and quickly pulling away. "Sorry-mmf!"

Arthur pulls him back in, captures his mouth and keeps it, lips clinging. When they separate, Merlin huffs for breath and pushes his face into Arthur's thigh to make the room stop spinning. He isn't used to kissing people, much less the man he loves. He didn't know it could be this good.

Arthur leans down, noses briefly at the skin behind Merlin's ear before biting down gently on the lobe. Pleasure zings through Merlin, all the way down to his fingertips. He gasps.

"I want you to get in the bath with me," Arthur murmurs, breath curling hot in Merlin’s ear.

“You’ve changed your mind since this morning?” Merlin asks.

Arthur leans his forehead against Merlin’s neck. “I almost lost you today.”

“I almost lost you first,” Merlin replies, with a gentle shove to Arthur’s shoulder. “And don’t try to sell me that whatever was wrong last night isn’t wrong anymore. Can’t fool me.”

Arthur sighs, frustrated, and rubs his face against Merlin’s tunic. “There’s this ... knot,” he begins.

“Knot?”

“In here.” Arthur takes Merlin hand, sits back to make room and places Merlin’s hand on his stomach.

Merlin frowns thoughtfully at Arthur’s midsection. “In there.”

“And when I think about all the things I want to do to you ...” Their eyes meet and the air seems to simmer as all those delicious things hang between them. But then Arthur averts his eyes. “The knot goes tight. I feel sick ... ashamed. Wrong.”

Merlin splays his fingers out and rubs, feels muscles jump under his hand. Why? Arthur is good, good all the way through, and the King knows that in his heart. Once Merlin convinced him of the truth of what happened in Ismere, the guilt should have gone away.

Perhaps this is not about Arthur after all. In the heat of the room, Merlin feels a chill creep down his spine.

Arthur covers Merlin’s hand with his own, looks down at him with patient curiosity.

Merlin reaches up with a forced grin and gives Arthur back the cuff to the head that he got in the throne room. “We went over this last night, Your Foolishness. There is no crime between us.” Thus he plants the first seed, coaxing. The truth must out, no matter how much it will hurt.

“I know.” Arthur let’s go of Merlin’s hand, rises and leaves the rug by the hearth, going to the window. “I know that,” he repeats, his tone evasive. “But the feeling is still there, and it keeps me from enjoying ... what I really want to enjoy.” He sighs heavily. “Sometimes ... We have to listen to our bodies even though we don’t really agree with what they are saying.” He trails off, at a loss as to how to express himself without being cruel. Merlin understands. 

Merlin has seen Arthur this way countless times before. Whenever he is insecure, or deep in thought, he will place himself before a window, to look out on his country. To remind himself of his responsibilities, or to hide himself behind them. Ruling is hard, but to Arthur, being simply a man has always been harder.

Merlin rises and follows him. Reminds himself that the poison must leave the fangs before it can disappear.

“You’re right,” he says, keeping his face serious. “You should listen to your body. Being as thick in the head as you are, it is probably the wiser part of you.”

Arthur’s mouth goes flat, but his shoulders drop a little, relaxing, and he turns to meet Merlin, though he keeps his arms crossed. This serves Merlin’s plan well.

He sidles up, keeping his hands behind his back, and makes his eyes wide and innocent. “So tell me, my lord, what is your body telling you, right now?” He slides a bold hand up between Arthur’s legs and cups him.

Arthur moans, hands flying to grip Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin presses the heel of his hand against Arthur’s generously swollen sex. It throbs with blood like a heart. Merlin’s own cock twitches in sympathy.

Arthur grits his teeth and glares, but makes no move to push Merlin away.

“Sometimes, our bodies know what our minds don’t,” Merlin says. “Other times, our bodies are as confused as the rest of us.” He takes a deliberate step back, separating them. “But in my experience, your heart usually steers you true.” He tries a smile, but inside he trembles. “I do not think guilt is the problem, Sire, though you want me to think so. I think it is something else. And I think it would be better if you would just-”

“Merlin.”

Merlin realises his hands are fidgeting, and push them down to hang at his sides..

“You’re right,” Arthur says. “While it may take some time to get over what happened in Ismere, that is not what troubles me anymore.”

Tears well up, sour and sudden, behind Merlin’s eyes. He grimaces, blinks to keep them back. He knew it would hurt, just not so bad. “It’s because you don’t trust me.”

Arthur closes his eyes. “I do trust you, Merlin.”

_But you shouldn’t!_

Merlin shakes his head, the tears spilling over.

Arthur grips his arm, pulls Merlin in and holds him. “Are you crying now, my little maidservant?”

Merlin shakes his head again, mutely against Arthur’s shoulder. “Nu-uh,” he says, and even that is a sob.

Arthur runs his big, strong hands up and down Merlin’s back.

“I’m just so sore,” the King mumbles. “So sore from all these hurts. I think it’s you who doesn’t trust me. You and Gaius.”

“She’ll come!” Merlin says fiercely, fisting his hands in Arthur’s shirt and letting his tears soak into the red fabric. “She will come to see you, and you’ll see Gaius hasn’t betrayed you, and I haven’t ... I didn’t ...”

“Hush now. Merlin, I don’t really think ... It’s just all so sore.”

They stand there for a long time, taking comfort in their closeness.

"The water is getting cold," Merlin says eventually, when he has his voice again, small thing though it is. “You shouldn’t waste it.”

Determined to be useful if he can’t be trustworthy, Merlin puts his hands on Arthur's belt, quickly tightening their grip when Arthur would move away. Merlin meets his concerned gaze proudly, though his face must be red and wet from his tears. At least his hands still know their job, though they shake a little. He pulls the belt free and drops it on the floor, but Arthur captures his hands when they return for his jacket. 

“Alright,” Arthur says, placating when Merlin wants to protest. “Alright. I’ll get in the water, but you will get in with me. And then we will eat, because we're both hungry, and then we'll go to bed."

Merlin bows his head as a fresh wave of tears threaten to spill. It’s too much. The past month has been an endless trial, full of fear and loneliness, and now when his dream is standing right in front of him with open arms, he cannot bear to have it for feeling unworthy.

Arthur palms Merlin’s cheek, raises his head and kisses him chastely. “To sleep, Merlin. We could both use it, and I am not ready to let you out of my sight, so you’ll have to sleep beside me.”

Merlin sniffs, wipes at his tears and nods eagerly.

But no matter how things stand between them, their bodies cannot deny how much they ache for each other. They undress each other with urgency and pleasure, though Merlin’s arousal is edged with sorrow-pain, stinging in his fingertips. His palms tingle from tracing the hard planes of Arthur's gorgeous body in a way that he has never before permitted himself to. His own skin feels tight, from his scalp to his shins, especially when Arthur pulls him close to push his clothes out of the way, baring him. Arthur can’t keep his hands off any more than Merlin, calloused palms sliding down his naked back and over his bottom, making Merlin moan in surprised pleasure.

But mostly they are breathless and quiet, their hearts pounding hard between them. Unwilling to let go of each other, the two touch from chests to thighs, and this new sensation makes Merlin dizzy again. As the barriers between them fall, they lose sight of their plan, hot mouths meeting for eager kisses, and though they meant for it to be only one, it becomes two, becomes three, just one more, that's four, alright five, until Merlin recovers his head and pushes Arthur towards the tub.

"In, in," he urges his lord, and Arthur climbs in, sinking into the water with a groan of appreciation.

“You next, come on.”

“In a second.”

Merlin pads to the table, spreads butter of thick slices of bread, loads it on a platter, slices apples, gathers bacon and cheese, and carries it all to the side of the tub, placing it on a stool. Then he goes to pour wine in the two goblets. When he turns to bring them to Arthur, he finds his lord lounging against the side of the tub, watching him with unabashed appreciation.

Merlin isn't usually self-conscious, but under that heavy gaze, he colours, and as always the redness spreads all the way down his chest and up to his ears, signalling his feelings like a trumpet blast. It makes Arthur's grin all the broader.

"You've been looking at me for years," Arthur says, eyes going up and down Merlin’s body like a caress. "Turnabout is only fair play."

"I'd let you watch me," Merlin says in a rush, wanting it, wanting to take his aching sex in hand and let Arthur see everything.

It's Arthur's turn to go red, eyes wide, and Merlin can see the way the possibilities run through his head, can tell that he is imagining the same thing Merlin is.

But it won't happen today. Merlin lets the moment die, and comes forward with the wine instead. Arthur drinks deeply while Merlin climbs in beside him. The water is pleasantly warm, a delicious shock to the senses.

The tub is huge, easy to let oneself slide forward and be submerged in, and Merlin does just that, scrubbing his face underwater to wash away dried tears. When he emerges, Arthur is lathering his hands with soap. They wash each other, playfully, hands wandering. There is tickling, retaliation by dunking, and a lot of water splashes over the sides of the tub.

Eventually, Arthur gets his hands in Merlin’s hair, and Merlin settles down to the delicious massage, feeling like he could purr. Out of the darkness behind his closed eyelids, a plan forms. A way to earn trust, perhaps, or if nothing else, some balm for his guilty soul.  
He clears his throat. "I don't know when ..." He has to stop when just those first words dries out his mouth and makes his chest tight. Arthur stops what he is doing for a moment.

“What?”

Merlin clears his throat again. “May I have some wine?”

A goblet is pressed into his hand, and he drinks deeply. There. Courage. Then he draws a quick breath and opens in a rush. "I don't know when I stopped thinking of you as a complete prat and started rather fancying you instead.”

After a moment, Arthur laughs disbelievingly. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Need to tell you this," Merlin informs him, draining his goblet and leaning sideways, hand reaching for the flagon of wine.

"Whoa there, hang on." Arthur uses his grip on Merlin’s hair to pull him back. He looks mock-stern. "While you never fail to be utterly hilarious while drunk, this is rather a bad time for singing and dancing."

Merlin relents a little sullenly. "At least I keep my clothes on, unlike some people I know."

Arthur abruptly shoves him under the water. When Merlin comes up, spluttering and with a goblet full of bathwater, Arthur is smiling innocently at him.

“What was it you needed to tell me?"

Merlin empties the goblet and puts it on the floor. Arthur pulls him in and pushes sopping wet hair out of Merlin’s face.

“I’ll listen. Come on.”

They are sitting very close now, thigh to thigh, and Merlin makes ripples on the surface of the water with his fingertips, as he begins his story again. In halting sentences, between breaths drawn into a tight chest, he tells Arthur about the first days of his servitude, and how his opinion of the prince had slowly changed. He talks about feeling pride in Arthur's accomplishments, the fear of losing him, and the joy of watching him grow into a better man. Just this once, Merlin will stroke Arthur’s ego.

Finally, he leans his chin on Arthur's shoulder, kisses his jaw gently, and tells Arthur in easier murmurs, about the sunny day of years ago, at the tournament field, when Arthur put Merlin feet first in a barrel of water, and Merlin fell head first in lust with his lord.

His face feels hotter than the bath water at this point, but Arthur isn't unaffected either, his eyes dark and his breathing grown deep and deliberate. The silence between them is pregnant with arousal and incredibly awkward.

"So you see," Merlin begins, and tries to sound casual. "I'd thought about riding you by the campfire long before Ragnor came up with it."

Arthur growls, drags Merlin in by his hair and kisses him hard, all teeth and groans and a body that vibrates with its need for more.

"Is this alright? Is this al-?" Merlin asks between hurried kisses. He really meant to keep his distance, but Arthur is irresistible, all wet skin and slicked-back hair and solemn, grateful attention to Merlin's story hidden beneath a layer of carelessness.

Arthur murmurs an affirmative, encircles Merlin in his arms, and they kiss until they are both dizzy, with Merlin's tongue in Arthur's mouth.

"Thought we weren't-" says Merlin the next time he has a chance to breathe.

"Can't seem to stop myself," Arthur answers, mouth finding Merlin's chin, and Merlin's throat and Merlin's ear, all of which seem to be connected to Merlin's cock in a way he did not know about. Or maybe Arthur is just a little bit magic.

Really, they're not going to get anything done at this rate. Merlin submits happily anyway, letting Arthur hold him, or pin him more like, and devour him.

"Wanted to trip your clumsy arse into my bed for so long. Been going half mad from having your hands all over me day after day."

Their legs are getting in the way of each other, their knees knocking together, so Merlin makes the logical move of parting his legs and letting Arthur draw him onto his lap. They stop a moment to acknowledge the similarity between this situation and their first, and then their bodies meet and the similarities end.

They break off to groan, Arthur's head falling forward while Merlin savages his lower lip to keep from writhing. Arthur is unyielding muscle and silky skin, glorious silky skin. Unlike Ismere's cold, detached pleasure, this is overwhelming to the senses. The air tastes like herbs, and Arthur's skin tastes clean and warm, and his mouth like wine.

"We should eat," Merlin says some time later, between kisses. "Or it won't be lunch anymore."

"Want to eat you," Arthur replies unhelpfully, which makes Merlin forget what he was trying to accomplish in favour of rubbing himself more enthusiastically against Arthur's lap.

But they do eat, feeding each other greasy bacon strips and succulent slices of apple, licking juice messily from fingers, their own and each other's. It is luxury and bliss, and the kisses never stop, as if they are making up for all the years they could have been doing this.

In the end it is the cold water that drives them to think of moving.

Arthur stands, lifting Merlin easily with two demanding hands on his ass. Merlin yelps and clings. "Oh no. I know how this ends," he says, as Arthur manoeuvres himself into a position to step out of the tub.

"Oh, do you now?" Arthur says, voice a little strained. "I'll have you know I am strong as a dragon." He lifts his foot, but quickly puts it down again when he can't keep his balance.

"I thought dragons carried off maidens, not menservants."

Arthur tries again, puts his foot on the edge of the tub first, and then over, so that's half the job done, and Merlin gets to land on the floor instead of in the tub when they fall. Wonderful.

"You're not a maiden, then?"

Merlin splutters. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, the big bad conqueror and the scared little virgin."

Arthur laughs. "You ARE a maiden!" He lifts his other foot suddenly, Merlin prepares for bruises, but a safe landing and a quick couple of steps later, he is dumped on his back on Arthur's bed.

Arthur is smug. "Strong as a dragon."

Pompous as a dragon.

Merlin bats his eyelashes and covers his aching sex shyly with his hand. "Oh my lord Dragon, please be gentle with me, I am ever such a virgin."

Arthur puts his hand on top of Merlin's and presses down, making pleasure shoot through Merlin groin. He lets his head fall back on a surprised moan, tries to hump their joined hands and finds it frustratingly unsatisfying.

"Come on, you big prat, how long does a maiden have to wait for the dragon to get on with it?"

"I thought we were going to go to sleep," Arthur says quietly.

Merlin freezes. It isn’t the words, but the tone that scares him. Suddenly cold, he pulls back and scoots away on the bed. For the first time today he feels awkward in his nudity.

Nothing has changed. He is still the traitor. And Arthur doesn’t want ...

Arthur watches him expressionlessly, though his cock is hanging hard and red along his leg.

"You'll need sleepwear," Merlin says, and he hears how strangled his own voice sounds. "I'll get-"

Arthur grabs his ankle and pulls him back, and he _is_ strong, the young dragon.

"Are you planning to go to sleep like this?" he says, taking the other ankle and pulling Merlin's legs apart.

Merlin quivers, caught between acute arousal and mounting shame. "We said we would sleep."

"We will." Arthur nods towards Merlin's purpling cock, already slick at the head and twitching like a living thing. "You also said you would let me watch. So do. Let me see you."

Merlin's body is a furnace, and hottest of all burns his cock, nerves zinging when Merlin wraps his hand around it. Though he fears rejection, and is confused by Arthur’s changing mood, he cannot but obey. He wants to obey. Slowly, his eyes on Arthur, he drags his fist up, thumbs the head briefly, and pushes back down, stretching the foreskin tight and revealing veins pounding with blood. Stroke after stroke, relief and punishment in one, with hips rolling as the coil of pleasure tightens, the wave building. He quickens his pace, breath coming in shallow gasps.

Arthur looks amazing. His hair is slicked back and dark, water runs down his neck and over his chest. Bright sunlight creates of him a bronze god, and but for his ruddy cock and bruised-red mouth, he could be a statue. Well that, and his eyes. Arthur's eyes never leave Merlin, but they flick hungrily between his face and his cock.

"So good for me, Merlin. Look at you touching yourself for your lord."

Merlin's hips buck, and his hand tightens almost viciously. He bites his lower lip, glares determinedly at Arthur and keeps going with an effort. He'd reply if he thought he wouldn't make a fool out of himself. After all the teasing he has endured so far, he is already ready to come.

"So eager to please."

Merlin gasps for breath, his free hand reaching down to palm at his balls. "Gonna – gonna come. Please, say ... say I can. Please, Arthur!"

Arthur groans, his grip on Merlin's ankles turning painful. "What am I supposed to do with you?" He let's go abruptly, wrenches Merlin's hands away from himself, bends down and takes Merlin's rigid sex into his mouth.

Merlin howls as he comes.


	23. Lost and found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred leaves, Arthur and Merlin finally get some sleep, and George tries to fire himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve got triple alliteration in the first paragraph of Arthur’s POV, guys. Truly, I am the next Shakespeare. And I just realised that the past nine chapters take place over the course of no more than two days in-universe, and with this chapter, that makes it ten.

He can't seem to get his thoughts together. The world tilts and blurs around him, and his body is cold from toes to crown, but somehow, he manages to put one foot in front of the other. Up ahead, the raven caws hoarse encouragement. It peers down at Mordred with black eyes, blinking in an almost friendly way. Then it takes off and flies to perch in the next tree, causing a rain of snow to fall on Mordred's head from the disturbed branches. He shudders as it melts and slips down his neck.

The world is silent and remote, the forest white, but before Mordred's inner eye, Camelot's red banners flutter. There had been a moment, as he was making his way through the lower town, when he had regretted leaving in such haste. He had turned around and looked back at the citadel, with its flags flying high on the cold wind, white towers glittering with frost in the sunlight.

With his head pounding and his body aching, he had wished desperately to be back in a warm bed. Foolishly, he had imagined that the situation could be turned around. Could not this place be a home? Would Arthur not understand, if Mordred told him everything? Could not even Merlin be made to see that Mordred wanted no part in his destiny, and would fight it tooth and nail? Would they not forgive him? He hadn’t hurt anyone, he hadn’t even meant to, it had been like a dream turned nightmare; he hadn’t been in control of his own mind!

Then the soldiers had swarmed out of the citadel and into the streets, and Mordred had experienced a sharp pang of familiarity. Though it had been years ago, he remembered that day well. The day he lost his father. So the shadow of Uther had stretched on through the years, to lie over him even now. Arthur had himself reminded Mordred that the penalty for sorcery was death, and now apparently he meant to see justice done. The King would not have spared such a force of men merely for the finding; this was a hunt. Mordred had escaped, but only just.

And to what other fate? If the raven truly came from Morgana, as he seems to instinctively know and yet doesn’t quite dare to believe, what is her purpose for him? Has she forgiven him his betrayal? Why would she?

If the soldiers of Camelot were not on his heels, Mordred might have gone down a different road, but the only certain sanctuary against them is with Morgana, so whether she wants him or whether she wants to kill him, to her he must go.

_‘We will see how sweet the King’s justice tastes to him, when he discovers the truth about Merlin.’_ Then Merlin would know what it was like to not be given so much as a chance.

He pulls Merlin’s winter cloak more tightly around himself, bends his head and ploughs on through the knee-deep snow, following the shrill music of the raven.

*

Arthur spits in his palm and slicks his cock, gathers Merlin’s legs together and thrusts his cock between those strong thighs. He thrusts low, darkly delighted with the wounded sounds Merlin makes as Arthur’s cock rubs roughly against Merlin’s own spent and sensitive little sex.

It is over quickly, though Arthur drags it out as much as he can, insatiably devouring the sight of Merlin marked and gloriously spread out against Arthur’s red sheets. Orgasm comes like a punch in the gut, and Arthur snarls, using Merlin’s thighs to milk his cock across the line of pleasure into pain. With his free hand, he rubs his seed into Merlin’s skin, drawing another wild little noise from him.

Finally, he can still, body heaving for breath, his mind blank in a good way. The knot inside him throbs, but the pain is muted. There is no mistaking Merlin’s slack-jawed expression; he has been ravished, and he loved it. Arthur puts Merlin’s legs down, leans over him on the bed and takes his lips in a slow kiss.

“Mine,” Arthur says, the only word he can speak, and the only thing he is certain of in the chaos.

“Yes,” Merlin answers, and when he smiles, it lights up his whole being. Arthur hides his face in the covers because he is smiling to, like a complete idiot. Merlin runs his hand soothingly over Arthur’s back.

After using the bathwater to wash up again, they put on sleeping wear and crawl gratefully under the covers. Arthur considers refusing to lend Merlin anything, but ultimately decides to be merciful, and though having Merlin naked in his arms would have been nice, knowing Merlin is sleeping in one of Arthur’s old tunics is also satisfying. Tired though he is, Arthur is unable to resist the clean, silky skin of Merlin’s neck and shoulders, and spends some time nosing at it and pressing kisses there, while Merlin murmurs happily and wiggles deeper into Arthur’s arms.

All issues of trust seem far away in that moment, loyalty and obedience both having been amply proven, and they fall asleep feeling more at peace than they have in a long time.

A knock on the door wakes them. It feels like hours has passed, and it must be so, because the world is dark outside Arthur’s window. The fire has died down to embers, and the room has grown cold.

The knock comes again. The two on the bed, having separated while they slept, look at each other.

Arthur knows who it is out there. Only George knocks on doors with that particular blend of precision, humility and inevitability.

Merlin blinks, dark lashes and dark eyes, expression unreadable. A new secrecy must begin here, for all the good it will do them; secrets like these do not keep long in the citadel of Camelot.

“I should get dressed,” Merlin whispers. His hand slides over to touch Arthur’s, and their fingers tangle, gripping at each other.

“You don’t have to. It’s just George. I can’t tell him to go away.”

Merlin’s expression is full of resigned affection.

“It’s alright. You will be needed somewhere, and so will I. Might as well get up.”

Arthur sighs. He closes his eyes to let the moment last just a little longer, concentrating on the feel of Merlin’s hand in his own.

The knock is repeated a third time.

Merlin’s hand slips away, there is a rustle as he rises from the bed. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut before forcing them open. While Merlin puts his clothes on in the darkness of the sleeping alcove, Arthur goes to open the door, hopping a bit to keep his feet off the icy floor.

“George,” he says in lieu of greeting, once the door is open.

Behind is ever-collected mien, George looks somewhat haggard. Apart from the dark circles around his eyes, the most striking change in him is the large, clean bandage wrapped around his head.

“I suspect you should be in bed,” Arthur says.

George inclines his head. “I will return to it as soon as this is over, Sire. I beg only a moment of your time.”

Arthur leans back to see if Merlin is done dressing. He is pulling his shirt on. That will have to do. When the secret leaks, it won’t be by any fault of George’s anyway.

“Come in.”

George steps over the threshold, and with a sweeping glance, he takes in the whole room. The dirty dishes and cold bathwater seems to cause him some distress, but as usual it is barely visible on the outside. The subtle longing in his eyes speaks volumes to Arthur, though. He quickly steers the poor man over to the chairs by the hearth, where he will have his back to the messy room.

“Now,” Arthur says once they are both seated. “What can I do for you, George?”

George swallows, and actually hesitates. For the first time, Arthur realises that the man is upset, truly upset, and it has nothing to do with the state of Arthur’s chamber.

“I ... I have merely come to ... to confirm that I am ... that I am no longer in your service, Sire.”

It’s Arthur’s turn to furrow his brow. “Why would you not be in my service? You didn’t hit your head that badly.”

George stares at his own toes for a moment. “I ... failed you, Sire. If you had worn your chainmail, your wounds would not have been so severe. It was I who refused you your choice of attire. I do not deserve the honour of being your manservant.” 

“Honour?” Merlin echoes impudently, while he hops around to get his boots on.

Arthur ignores him. He shakes his head at George. “You are the only man I know whose only flaw is that you have no flaws. George, I wear chainmail because Merlin is a lazy bum who never gets around to washing my shirts.” He thinks for a moment. “And because I want to be ready for anything, I suppose, but that isn’t the point. The point is that the outfit you chose was entirely appropriate for the situation, and secondly-” he raises his voice when George opens his mouth to protest. “If I had believed even for a moment that I would be in danger out there, I would have simply overridden your decision. I am the King, I can do that.” He has no intention of admitting that George intimidates him. “I refuse to accept your resignation.”

He stands. “I was, however, hoping you would share the position with Merlin.”

Merlin is tying his neckerchief, the final piece of clothing. Arthur wants to undress him all over again.

“I’m sorry, Arthur, but I think George will have to shoulder the honour alone for a while longer.”

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. “Did you hear the part about me being the King? It will be as I say.”

Merlin smiles at him like Arthur is adorable and stupid. “Gaius needs me. You have a lot of sick subjects and only one physician.”

Arthur steps forward, but remembers himself, and George, in the last moment and keeps his hands at his sides. “Then I will order assistants for him. He can have a hundred if he wants.”

“It is me he needs,” Merlin admonishes. He kneels down to tighten the buckles on his boots.

Arthur turns around because _hello, inappropriate mental image_. Then a thought occurs to him that makes fear seize him by the spine. “Merlin, you don’t ...” He turns back to find Merlin regarding him curiously. “You don’t regret ...?”

Merlin’s eyes widen. “No,” he says with enough simple surety that he doesn’t have to say any more. Which is good, because George is still right there, and struck on the head or no, he is not stupid.

They hold each other's eyes for a moment longer, expressing gratitude and happiness, as well as an acknowledgement of the unsolved matters that lie between them. Then Merlin turns on his heel and heads for the door. “Don't let George work for at least a week. He needs to rest or his head wound could get worse.” It sounds like something he has heard Gaius say.

“A week?” Arthur asks in outrage. “What am I supposed to do for a whole week?”

“I told you, you will have to scrub your own floors. Although ...” At the door, he turns back, and looks at Arthur with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “I think you said something about ordering a hundred assistants? Surely one or two of them could be spared to empty your chamber pot for you, which, by the way, I will not miss.”

It is Arthur’s turn to smile, but evilly. With his strong, broad body, he barely has to do any work to crowd Merlin menacingly against the door.

“George, close your eyes,” Arthur orders, without taking his eyes off Merlin.

“I am deaf and blind, Sire.”

“You're a marvel, George,” Arthur says as he closes the space between himself and Merlin.

Merlin ruins the kiss by grinning, until Arthur pinches the skin of his arm.

“Stop smiling. You have greatly displeased your King.”

“I will have to make it up to him,” Merlin says.

And because sod it all, Arthur kisses Merlin some more.

“I promise I won't be a stranger,” Merlin pants against Arthur’s cheek when they part again, his breath a hot contrast to the chill of the room.

“See to it that you are not.”

Merlin turns the handle.

“Merlin?”

George stands, looking perfectly vacant, somehow exuding confidence and capability despite the rather enormous bandage.

“Yes?”

“The King is not sleeping well after the attack. He will require a sleeping draught.”

Arthur and Merlin look at each other curiously. Arthur has actually slept remarkably well, considering, but then utter exhaustion and a good orgasm are the two best inducers of deep sleep.

George does not seem to think that anything is amiss, however. “In these uncertain political times, with a dangerous sorceress lose in the citadel, the medicine can only be delivered by someone completely trustworthy.” He clears his throat, and stands up a little straighter, if that is even possible. “His Majesty will expect you precisely one hour before his regular bedtime. Every evening.”

Arthur can’t help it; he leans on the wall and covers his mouth to keep from laughing out loud, but his shoulders shake with it. George strikes again.

“I'll be there,” Merlin stammers.

George nods. “Very good. You may go.”

Arthur is laughing so hard he can only wave Merlin away. The door shuts behind him. George waits patiently for Arthur to recover. Finally, Arthur sighs and turns to his old new manservant.

“You are not who you seem, are you George?”

George’s brow furrows. “Are any of us, Sire?”

And Arthur supposes that’s true.


	24. Hurtling towards the day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their bodies are united, but their hearts are not, still walled off by secrets and lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between posting-days, I'm thinking up long essays about my writing process, the recurring themes of the story, and all the stuff that doesn't make it into the final cut, but when the time comes to write this note, I can't think of anything to say.

George manages to talk his way out of bed early without either begging or demanding; somehow he ends up trailing after Arthur as the King goes about his day, and Arthur has a vague memory of protesting, as well as a strong sense that it didn’t work. Though the man is sensible enough, at least, to delegate most of his heavier duties to others, leaving only Arthur's personal needs in his own care. 

Arthur has ordered more guards in all inhabited parts of the castle, and conducts random sweeps of all floors, but they find neither hide nor hair of the sorceress. Arthur examines every face he passes for traces of ... something. What does a disguised sorceress look like? He recalls the old woman who stole the face of Lady Helen, the songstress, but at the time he didn't know to look for anything out of the ordinary, and by now, the details have been blurred by time.

He conducts his country's affairs from the throne, only to drift off in contemplation of Emrys' wrinkled old face. That too is getting harder to picture, though. He knows he found the old man's eyes familiar, but he can't remember why, or even what colour they were. Not that it matters; if she was disguised, perhaps she changed her eyes too. That's the problem with magic; it makes deceit so easy, and the truth so hard to find.

As planned, George finishes his duties early every evening, and slips out of Arthur's chambers just in time for Merlin to slip in. Merlin with a medicine bottle clutched in his hand. There’s only water in it, Arthur finds out on the first night.

Since they haven't seen each other all day, there will be some talk first, a bit of "how was your day" and "did you stub your toe? It's blue. What happened?", but the answers are usually more kisses than words.

They rut together, insatiable, like animals, the candles of their lives burning hot in their prime. Or so Arthur thinks, until he begins to realise that the heat is coming from Merlin.

The hand he presses to Merlin's forehead is not welcome. "Are you sick still?"

Merlin takes the hand and puts it somewhere more productive. "I'm fine," he says with a pointed and impatient roll of his hips.

But there is fever in his eyes, and a restlessness in his limbs that grows worse daily. Arthur does his best to soothe, running his hands all over Merlin as if he can wipe away his jittery energy like the Earth draws lightning out of the sky. He isn't sure if it works, but at least Merlin enjoys this.

Once, Arthur catches Merlin with a hand at his own ass, spidery fingers rubbing his hole and making himself gasp and buck as if it were a pussy. Arthur pushes those fingers away and replaces them, and rubs, rubs, rubs hard and fast until Merlin comes with a shout, spilling over his own fist.

"Next time," Merlin says drowsily as they lie together afterwards. "Next time, you can fuck me."

"I am fucking you," Arthur replies, tracing Merlin's cheekbone and wondering at the excessive sheen of sweat on his lover's pale skin.

Merlin rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean." He kisses Arthur lightly and gets out of bed, stretching. "I'd better get back."

The first few nights he had stayed until morning, but lately he has begun to leave earlier. While the sex is pretty fantastic, Arthur would trade it in if Merlin would just stay. He is there for the lovemaking, responsive and attentive, always eager, but the distance between them is growing anyway. The air around Merlin feels heavy, like in the days before a storm breaks out: full of anticipation.

Days and nights pass, until Arthur won't tolerate it anymore.

When Merlin tries to slip out of bed, Arthur wrestles him back in and rolls them around so Arthur is pinning Merlin with his weight.

"You will stay here tonight."

Merlin bucks, first to test Arthur's hold, and then more angrily when he realises he is trapped.

"I have to get back. I'm needed, Arthur!"

Arthur keeps his voice measured and firm. "I will send someone down to keep vigil with Gaius. Besides, you should be one of the patients, not the healers."

"I am fine!"

"You're burning up. You've been getting steadily worse for days!"

Merlin huffs, twisting stubbornly. "If I was sick, don't you think Gaius would have noticed?"

Arthur searches Merlin's face, but it's so hard to read. There is tiredness, overlaid by a stubbornness that has no doubt kept him going past his limit for some time. Happily, Arthur thinks he can still catch a glimmer of _Merlin_ in there, his kindness and wit. But deep beneath it all ... is that ... fear?

Arthur lets go and backs away, sitting up on his haunches. Merlin sits up as well, rubbing his arms. "I don't want to go, Arthur, but I am needed."

Arthur's frustration boils, but he keeps it down. "Go then," he says, looking away. "But I will talk to Gaius in the morning. He will accept more help. I won't let this go on."

He startles as he thinks he catches, in the corner of his eye, Merlin's face contorting into a mask of rage and frustration. When he turns his head, though, it's gone. Merlin's eyes are shuttered, his expression blank.

"Very well, Sire."

Arthur watches as Merlin pulls his clothes on, all gangly limbs in the moonlight.

To think ... in two days it will be Christmas.


	25. The gift of a good day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We follow our heroes on the day of Christmas Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was held up partly by a plot detail I could not work out for a long time, and partly by real life, with a holiday in London, and then the beginning of school.
> 
> I felt it was necessary to take stock of the characters, so to speak, before ... well, before what is to come, and to address some issues I had not been able to fit in before, but I didn't want to use more than one chapter on it all. So I decided to put all the necessary viewpoints into a single chapter, and do a little experiment with fluid exchanges of focal characters. It might come off as stilted; please let me know if it did.

A group of entertainers arrive just in time for the celebrations. Their colourful wagons attract a great deal of attention as they creak through the snow towards the citadel, pulled by puffing ponies and filled, no doubt, with all kinds of exciting magic. Not real magic, of course, but the illusions and arts of jugglers, acrobats, storytellers, singers and jesters. Children mill about the train all the way through town. From the back of a faded, yellow wagon, a handsome dwarf in a brilliantly red coat throws sweets to the little ones, who reach out eager hands and cry out for more. Beside the dwarf sits a woman whose golden hair is streaked with grey, but whose eyes are full of life and laughter. She has bundled herself up in a colourful patchwork shawl, but underneath, her dress is plain.

On the roof of one of the wagons, a fire breather is spitting flames high into the air, to a chorus of gasps from the onlookers, and a young woman is doing a handstand on the back of one of the wagon horses, but however strange and wonderful the new arrivals appear to the children, it pales in comparison to what meets them when they mill through the upper gates and into the courtyard of the citadel. There is a marvellous snowball-fight going on, and it seems to involve most of the King’s knights.

Red capes stream in the air as full-grown men chase each other around like boys. Snowballs soar left and right, some find targets and send them sprawling, while others fly wild. In the midst of it all, the King himself is back to back with Merlin, the two of them standing their ground against any and all comers. Clear laughter rings through the courtyard like the bells that pealed that very morning to greet the coming of Christmas Eve.

“Look out!"

A snowball comes out of nowhere and slams into the corner of the yellow wagon, spraying the woman and the dwarf with snow.

“Sorry!”

Sir Gwaine comes running up. He grins apologetically and bows low. “My lady, good Sir, it was not my intention to hurt you.” He takes a snowball to the back, and turns around just in time to duck as another comes flying at him. “Oi!” he shouts, and is given laughter in return. He turns back to the couple and winks. “Gotta watch your back with this lot.”

“No harm done, Sir Knight,” the dwarf assures him.

Gwaine inclines his head gratefully, and means to turn away.

“Oh, Sir Knight?” the woman says suddenly.

Gwaine looks up at her, and immediately takes a snowball to the back of the head.

The woman laughs aloud while Gwaine splutters.

“Now we are even,” she says. “Go back to your game.”

He just stares at her for a moment, taking in her shrewd eyes and the sharp corner of her smiling mouth, before bowing again, with more respect this time. “My lady.” Then he whips around and stalks into the crowd. “Merlin! I know that was you!”

“It was Arthur!”

“Was not!”

“Was too!”

Guilty and innocent alike scatter, roaring with laughter, as Gwaine takes up the chase, the newcomers forgotten. The wagons roll away towards their old camp site: the fields stretching white and untouched beyond the castle.

Merlin runs to the steps of the citadel, climbs nimbly up on the dais where the statue of the mounted knight stands, and sends another snowball after Gwaine, who throws himself out of the way and behind one of the few mounds of last night’s snow that has not yet been flattened.

Merlin laughs like a fiend while Gwaine waves furiously to get Percival and Elyan to join him.

When the three burst out from behind the mound to pelt Merlin with snowballs, the little demon hides behind the legs of the stone horse, and sticks his tongue out at them as their projectiles miss their target.

“So it’s a siege, is it?” Merlin yells, scraping the top of the platform for snow.

His shout attracts the attention of Sir Dinadan, a knight big enough to rival even Percival, and Sir Gregor, who joined the ranks just last summer.

“Need any help, boy?” Dinadan bellows, and he and Gregor hurry to Merlin’s side, crouching down behind the statue’s base.

“It’s war!” Gwaine shouts, and then it is. More knights join each side. Leon, the traitor, goes to Merlin, but Arthur comes to Gwaine. A few rebellious fools try to form their own group, but give up quickly when they are flattened in their first attack by several dozen snowballs.

The strategy is to jump up, make a throw at the nearest available target, and duck down again to furiously gather more snow. A hit to the chest or the face means you are out. Slowly the number of balls flying through the air dwindles, as many of the “slain” knights take to the stairs to sit and cheer the factions on.

Merlin, on his bird’s perch, remains unbeaten, and he’s grinning like a loon.

Eventually, Gwaine and Arthur remain against Merlin, Leon and Gregor. The three at the statue huddle down to whisper amongst themselves.

“What are they planning?” Arthur mumbles, idly tossing a snowball from hand to hand.

It becomes clear when, with a mighty war cry, Leon, Gregor and Merlin abandon their base to run full tilt at Gwaine and Arthur, who scream like little girls before gathering their wits enough to take the offered shot. Gregor is hit and falls down theatrically. Merlin dodges, and he and Leon throw themselves over the mound and land heavily on top of Gwaine and Arthur.

Merlin, sitting astride Arthur, raises both hands into the air with a whoop of joy, and to great applause from the spectators.

“Victory!”

Gwaine and Arthur immediately pull him down and shove him face-first into the snow. He comes up laughing like he can’t stop. Arthur rolls his eyes at him and pulls him to his feet.

“You don’t have to be so satisfied with yourself.” He brushes show from Merlin’s neckerchief, and the gruffness is belied by his smile.

Leon and Gwaine remain sprawled on the ground, breathing hard.

“That was a good work-out,” Gwaine says.

Then Merlin is bending over him. “I admit it,” he says, voice low, with a big, dumb grin on his face. “I did throw that snowball.”

Gwaine chases him all the way into the castle and up the first flight of steps before he has to stop and catch his breath. He can hear Merlin crowing with satisfaction somewhere up ahead, the sound fading as he disappears. The other knights follow more sedately. A few clap Gwaine on the back.

“Better luck next time, Sir Gwaine,” Dinadan says.

Arthur is one of the last to come up, and he stops next to Gwaine and waits for the hallway to empty. He keeps his arms crossed over his chest and looks a little uncomfortable. When they are alone, he glances quickly at Gwaine and says, “Thank you ... for cheering him up.”

Gwaine straightens up shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t know that it was me that did it, really.” He pulls off his gloves and wipes melted snow from his eyes.

For the past week, Merlin has been busy helping to tend to Gaius’ patients, and he’s been looking more wound up every time Gwaine has seen him. Sneaking away every evening to roll around in the King’s bed hasn’t seemed to help him either, and since Gwaine takes credit for opening that door for him and Arthur, he is very disappointed.

But today it is Christmas, and Merlin’s bad mood has melted away like a snowflake. His shoulders are down, his expression open, and his eyes are free of shadows, though he still looks like he could use a good night’s sleep.

“Well, you helped.” Arthur claps a hand to Gwaine’s shoulder, which is the most emotional gesture he is capable of, the poor sod. “You’re a good friend, Gwaine.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

Gwaine knows that Arthur is not only speaking on Merlin’s behalf, but on his own as well, and it is as close to an apology as Arthur will ever make him, but it is enough. When Arthur walked away that day in the training room, mute and temperamental like a different man entirely, Gwaine had seriously considered packing up and leaving. Now, as he watches Arthur walk away again, he is glad he didn’t. Not only is Arthur returning to normal, but Gwaine has, over the past few weeks, realised just how close he is to his fellow knights, as they have spent evening after evening sharing their worries about their Captain over mugs of ale. This fellowship is something he never thought he would experience. He never thought he would find a place, not to mention a King, that he would be willing to lay down his life for. He doesn’t ever want to let go of this.

Later, in the solitude of his room, Gwaine peels off his wet clothes, hangs away his chainmail, and washes up before dressing in the clothes he will be wearing for the feast tonight. A fine green shirt under his favourite leather jacket, and the new boots Arthur gave him for an early Christmas present. The King gives presents to all his knights, and though many of them must, by necessity, be picked out by others, a few will come from Arthur himself, and this one did. The boots make up the rest of the apology; they are finer and more expensive than anything Arthur has given away before.

Gwaine puts them on, stands up from his bed and stamps his feet to make sure the fit is right. He wasn’t aware of just how worn his old boots were until he felt the snug, sturdy grip of the new ones, and the feelings brings him a simple happiness that warms him through.

After snagging a bite to eat from the kitchens, he ends up in the music room, where there is always life these days. Lady Mary is currently singing, accompanied by a harpist, and several lordlings are lounging on the many chairs and sofas, listening with varying degrees of genuine musical interest. Lady Mary’s eyes are on Arthur though, her smiles and her gestures all for him, and he looks like he wishes he could run away and hide somewhere. He is hovering distractedly by the game board where Merlin is playing against Percival. Merlin seems to be losing rather spectacularly, more focused on pretending not be bothered by the attention Arthur is getting from the lady, than on working out a playing strategy.

Gwaine shakes his head and goes to help him out.

On a sofa by the brightly burning fireplace, Guinevere is sitting with Lady Brangaine, Mary’s mother. Gwen is mending a pair of Elyan’s trousers. She ought to be doing embroidery or something else appropriate, but she would rather be useful. Luckily, Lady Brangaine is the kind of woman who appreciates honesty over propriety.

The lady puts her hot cider aside with a sigh, and watches her daughter with a regretful sort of fondness in her expression.

“Well. She can sing, I will give her that. None of her sisters can boast of that.”

Guinevere pretends to be very intent on her work, while trying to think of something tactful to say. “I am sure Lady Mary has many accomplishments.”

“I would rather she had a sharp mind and a larger portion of modesty,” the lady says bluntly. She smiles conspiratorially at Guinevere. “She takes rather too much after her father.”

Guinevere smiles into her lap. She needn’t encourage the old lady, entertaining though she is.

Mary does have her talents, though. She is very pretty for one, with her dark brown hair shining in the firelight, her delicate hands clasped at her slim waist, and her large, almond eyes drawing her audience in. She also does have quite a lovely voice; clear and steady. Unfortunately, she is spoiling the effect somewhat by staring rather too resolutely at Arthur, who in turn is focusing fervently on the game that Merlin is currently losing.

The King says something, and Merlin makes a reply that causes the men around the game board to laugh, and Lady Mary’s eyes to narrow.

Gwen focuses on her mending.

She can feel Lady Brangaine’s sharp eyes on her. “I have tried to tell Mary that the King will not take her for a wife, but she won’t listen to me.”

“She has as good a chance as anyone,” Gwen says without looking up from her work. “I am sure His Majesty is considering marriage.” There are rather too many rumours to the contrary going around already, though only Arthur’s closest friends know about him and Merlin. How long their secrecy will last is anybody’s guess though. “He knows the people would welcome a queen ... and an heir.”

Lady Brangaine gives Arthur a long look. “ _They_ would,” she says simply.

When the song ends, Lady Mary is quickly at Arthur’s side. She drapes herself on his arm, gestures as if she finds the room too hot, and obviously requests that he accompany her outside. Arthur looks momentarily panicked, before he resigns himself to his fate, gives the lady a quick bow and escorts her away. At the last moment, he turns his head and barks an order at Merlin, who stands up so fast he bangs into the game board and almost topples it, before running out the door after the couple.

Guinevere puts the needle through the cloth, pulls it out, puts it in again, pulls it out, puts it in again-

“Go on,” Lady Brangaine says. “The mending will wait for you.”

Guinevere looks up at her, startled, sudden fear making her heart pound. How direct this woman is. How careless.

But Lady Brangaine’s expression is gentle. “I was young once too, Gwen,” she says, voice low. “Indulge your heart while it is still free, and you will make a wiser choice when you tether it.”

Gwen leaves at a quick walk. She doesn’t even know what she means to do, she just doesn’t want to lose sight of Arthur while he is with that ... that woman! Merlin will keep an eye on them of course, but ...

In the staircase she happens to look out of the window, and sees, through the diamond-paned glass, three blurry figures outside in the still afternoon. Lady Mary will not be feeling too hot anymore, but it seems to have given her an excuse to cling to Arthur all the tighter.

_What am I doing?_

Gwen leans her forehead against the glass and lets the chill cool her mind. She is acting on her lowest impulses, being jealous and nosy and selfish. As if Arthur is even hers to lose.

“Lady Guinevere, have you seen the King?”

It’s Leon, all dressed up in his finest red jacket. It is frayed in places, and has probably been mended before, but it suits him; gives colour to his cheeks and brings out his freckles.

He slows his approach as he nears her and catches on to her mood. She indicates the courtyard below with a gesture.

“His Majesty is busy with his duties.”

Leon looks outside. “Hard duties,” he comments. He spots Merlin idling at a respectful distance to the couple, and wonders what _he_ thinks of the situation. Then he glances at Guinevere, and realises that she, at least, is not happy.

“Arthur will not have Mary,” Leon says, wanting to reassure her. “Even if he were to marry for political reasons, it would be to a princess, so he can marry kingdom to kingdom as well as man to woman.”

Guinevere’s expression wavers for a moment between sorrow and anger, before she smoothes it out. Now she just looks tired. “I know. But whomever he chooses, he must do it soon, before the talk grows dangerous.”

“There is talk?”

“There is always talk.” She sighs, and finally pulls her eyes from the window to look at Leon. “Even with a sorceress lose in the castle, the court is interested in little other than Arthur’s brideless bed.”

Leon watches as Arthur stops down in the yard and calls for Merlin to keep up. “Brideless, but not empty, I think.” He bites his lip. “Not anymore?” He glances quickly at Guinevere, but she is steady and calm. Always was, Gwen.

“Not anymore,” she says, and nods determinately to herself, even smiling a little.

He smiles too. Merlin has returned the King to happiness, and though Leon cannot himself understand the feelings they have for each other, a man for a man, he will not judge a bond that does so much good for both them and the kingdom. He understands that they need each other.

“I am happy for them,” he says. “I only hope that when Arthur takes a queen at last, Merlin will be as understanding of you, as you have been of him.”

She startles, gapes at him. “Leon!”

“Why should Arthur take anyone else? He will marry for love or not at all, and he loves you, and you have the support of the people, and the knights and most of the court. If you will only accept him ...”

She was always the unshakable one. Always wise and mature beyond her years. When Leon fell from the roof of his father’s house and broke his leg, it was little Gwen who sat with him and calmed him down while Elyan ran to get help. She did not cry, even at the sight of his twisted leg, though Leon, several years older, had cried loudly.

Leon has seen her step between Arthur and an assassin’s sword, armed only with the steel in her eyes, and it was she who had salvaged the treaty negotiations with Mercia, when Arthur and Bayard were unable to overcome past enmities.

How could she, with all her wisdom and patience, turn down the man she still loves when he offered her everything?

Leon poses the question, tentatively. She regards him steadily as he flounders to explain. “I have wondered … for years, but I knew it was not my place to ask, and it still isn’t, I shouldn’t-”

She places a hand on his arm, silencing him. “It’s alright.”

She looks around briskly. “Come,” she says. “Walk with me.”

He offers her his arm, and they set off in no particular direction. The castle is cheerful and busy. The feast tonight will be lavish, even decadent, and though the washing and sweeping and decorating and baking has been going on for days already, there is always more to do. In the midst of the bustle of servants, and with the nobility ensconced with the variety of entertainment available in the castle’s many rooms, Gwen and Leon find themselves enjoying a strange sort of privacy. Like a ship in the eye of the storm, they can walk and talk unmolested.

“The truth is,” Guinevere begins slowly, eyes downcast and thoughtful. “I’m not sure why I turned him down.”

“You do seem to regret it,” Leon ventures to say.

“Again,” she says with a self-deprecating snort. “I’m not sure.” She takes a deep breath. “When he asked me, years ago, I knew that marrying him would entail much more than just waking up next to the man I loved every morning. I would be queen. Married to Arthur, and to Camelot.”

Leon hasn’t really thought of it that way before, but realises that it is an inevitable truth. The King can never be just a man, and so the Queen, he supposes, can never be just a woman.

“And then there was the matter of ... Lancelot.” She might be blushing, he can’t tell, but she speaks the name as if it is something precious, a secret or a treasure. “He is still in my heart, and always will be, just like Arthur. Had I said yes to Arthur, it would have been a marriage of four.”

They walk on in silence, and Leon stays silent, though he knows she is waiting for him to speak, to comment on her infidelity. But he will not. It is in the past now, and was never any of his business besides. When he dares another glance at her, she is looking at him curiously.

“And _then_ ,” she finally continues, turning her eyes forward again, “I looked around and realised that Arthur and I were not so alone in the royal gardens as I had thought. My poor suitor had brought his moral support with him, and _he_ was sitting on a bench in front of the rose bushes, trying to look like he wasn’t watching.” She sighs again. “Trying to look like his heart wasn’t breaking.”

A maid curtseys as she passes with an armful of clean sheets, and Leon waits until she is well out of earshot before he speaks. “But Merlin was always urging Arthur to act on his feelings for you. No one wanted your union more than he did.”

Gwen smiles affectionately and leans her head on Leon’s shoulder as they stroll. Her hair tickles his chin. “Dear Merlin. Perhaps he didn’t think he had a chance.”

“Or perhaps he thought the two of them could never be together regardless,” Leon adds, and has to clear his throat. “Even now, the reality remains that Arthur must someday wed.”

Gwen’s eyes narrow suddenly. “You hit on something earlier, I think … Deep down I always expected Arthur to come back to me. I was able to let him go because I thought the window of opportunity would remain open. If I had not had that certainty, I would never have refused his proposal. I would rather have lived every day with Merlin’s wounded heart on my conscience, and Lancelot’s ghost in the bed between me and my husband, than lose Arthur altogether. I thought I had time.”

Leon hesitates, treading sensitive ground again. “Mustn’t … Merlin … now live with your … wounded heart?”

She shook her head. “I had my chance, and three years more besides.” They walk in silence for a while, and then Gwen says. “I am happy for them. Merlin completes Arthur in a way I never could have. And I still get to be close to them both.”

“Merlin cannot give Arthur children,” Leon says.

Gwen looks troubled. “I …” She frowns, frustrated. “I have a strange feeling that … Arthur never will have children.” She glances quickly at Leon. “I don’t know why, I just … feel it.”

Leon looks at her curiously. “I hope you don’t have the sight.” The joke is half lost because he can’t seem to lighten his tone.

She smiles anyway, though. “I doubt that. I am barren of magic powers. But I don’t need them.” They stop, and she turns to him. “I was a blacksmith’s daughter, and now I am a lady, independent of any man for my income. I answer to no one, and my opinions are respected by my peers. I have more than most women can ever dream of. Arthur has given me a great gift, and if I, by giving him this time with Merlin, can return a little of that generosity, then that makes me happy too.”

On an impulse that makes his heart leap in surprise at his own bravery, Leon leans down and kisses her dark forehead. It’s a chaste gesture and yet he can feel himself blushing, and her eyes have widened a little when he straightens up and can look at her again.

“I-I really admire you for all this,” he says quickly. “Always have.” He bows quickly and almost staggers around, walking away as fast as he can without looking like he is fleeing.

Around the corner he almost runs straight into Princess Elena.

“Oh, Sir Leon.” She looks a little stressed, her hair flying all over the place, but then again it would be rarer to see it properly braided. She looks around. “Have you seen Galahad anywhere? He has wandered off again.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Leon says, detaches himself with another little bow and hurries on down the hallway.

Elena, momentarily distracted from her search, watches him go. He seemed preoccupied, she thinks. Oh well. She draws her cloak closer about her and heads for the courtyard.

Galahad’s little boots and fur jacket is gone, so he is probably outside. The nurse, poor thing, was asleep by the fire, and had thought he was too. The old woman is currently searching the part of the castle where Emrys’ cloak was found, in case Galahad has gone back there. Elena suspects, however, that the fine afternoon, though cold, has lured him outside to play.

Sure enough, as she circles the edge of the courtyard, she finds a set of tiny footprints to follow, leading, not into town as she had first thought they would, but to the fields behind the castle. Yesterday they lay empty and untouched, heaped with snow, but today they are crowded with the colourful wagons of the gypsy-folk. They have built a great fire, and are gathered around it, making their food and huddling together for warmth.

Elena spots Galahad’s white-haired head amongst them, and approaches to see him bundled up on the lap of a woman who is singing gently to him. As Elena nears, the woman stops singing, and says, “Here comes your mother, Galahad. She will be unhappy that you left her.”

Galahad blinks sleepily, looks up and sees Elena. With a slow, unbeguiling smile, he reaches out for her.

“Thank you for looking after him,” Elena says as she lifts her child into her arms.

“Thank you for not accusing me of luring him away,” says the woman, as she untangles Galahad from her shawl, and wraps it around her own shoulders again. “Most would not be so kind to my kind.”

Elena shakes her head. “Oh, Galahad wanders off all the time.” She bounces him. “Don’t you sweetie? But he stays out of trouble. He has an ability to read peoples intentions before they know them themselves.”

Elena covers Galahad with her own cloak and places his head on her shoulder, where his eyes quickly close for sleep.

“A remarkable child,” says the man sitting next to the woman, stirring a pot of stew on a branch in the fire. He is hardly taller than Galahad, but well-shaped, with auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, and a good smile. “Connected to the world around him in a way most people will never be.”

“But then,” says the woman, regarding Elena with eyes that seem to pierce her soul. “So are you, Your Majesty.”

“I …”

Elena has never spoken of her own abilities to anyone. For the past few years, she has been able to sense where great magic has been performed, or when there are magical beings present. It is not something she can explain, or control. She hardly knows how it works, and has not dared to discuss it with anyone. Not her father, and certainly not her husband.

As if understanding, the dwarf grins and places a finger to his lips, promising secrecy. “Come,” he says, “sit and warm yourself a while. Have a bowl of broth. My name is Tom, and I was just going to ask Taliessa for a story.” He winks. “She is very good with those.”

The woman gives him a good-natured glare. “I am saving my stories for tonight, Tom Thumb. For their proper time.”

But Elena decides that Taliessa doesn’t really mean it, and so she promptly makes herself comfortable on the ground next to the two. “I would love to hear a story,” she says.

Taliessa laughs. “You are ruining your dress, Your Majesty.”

Elena looks down, makes sure she is sitting mostly on her cloak and not just her dress, and then shrugs. “It’s only a dress. Please call me Elena.”

Tom is whistling to himself with some satisfaction as he ladles stew into three bowls.

Taliessa looks from the one to the other, sighs and rolls her eyes in defeat. “Very well. I will tell you a story.”

She does not, though. She does not merely tell a story. She weaves a tapestry. She takes Elena on a journey, makes the characters come alive to whisper their lines into her ears, each voice distinct, each face as clear to her as her own dear father’s. Sometimes Taliessa breaks into song, her voice strong and undeniable, but also sweet and lulling. Tom produces a brass flute from inside his coat and gives her a melody.

Elena loses herself, and when she later awakens, as if from a dream, darkness has fallen. The castle windows shine with golden light like candles. Galahad lies quietly on his mother’s lap, having listened as intently as her. White stars are reflected in his eyes, as if they contain the heavens.

Elena moves, and realises she is aching with stiffness and the cold that has seeped through her clothes and into her skin.

“Who are you?” she asks the woman.

“A storyteller,” she replies, and the last vestiges of the remarkable dream fade from the air, taken by the cold.

“You must come to the Christmas feast,” Elena insists as she takes her leave. “You and Tom. You can tell your stories to the King and the court.”

Taliessa looks reluctant. “A large feast makes a poor stage for me. I much prefer a smaller, and less drunken, crowd.”

But Elena will not hear of it. “Come anyway. They will listen to you; you’re incredible.”

Taliessa and Tom share a long look, and then they bow their heads.

“Very well. We accept your invitation, Your Majesty.”

Delighted with her discovery, Elena hurries back to the castle. She is late and must get ready for the feast.

“This will be a wonderful addition to the evening, don’t you think so Galahad?”

But Galahad is asleep on her shoulder, and can no more predict the future than she can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I finally got the chance to address Guinevere’s refusal of Arthur’s proposal three years ago. Now, obviously, the true reason why she said no, is because this is a Merthur story, and I didn’t want to deal with infidelity. So giving voice to Gwen’s reasons is an extravagance, but also very difficult, because I didn’t plan for her reasons from the beginning. And why would she say no? She loves him, he loves her, they make kick-ass rulers! So I took the characters and tweaked them a bit. Where Merlin in canon loves Arthur deeply, but without the selfish possessiveness that comes from romantic and lustful love, my Merlin isn’t quite so able to share, which Gwen picked up on. As for Guinevere herself, I dialled her love for Lancelot up a notch, deepening the wound left behind by his death. This created a situation where a potential marriage to Arthur would be more complicated for her than it was in canon. In addition, I have one other reason why Gwen said no, but I am saving that one for the post-story author’s notes.
> 
> Also, I had planned on being much vaguer about Gwen and Leon’s relationship, but the characters ran away with me a bit and so Leon at least obviously has some feelings for her.


	26. The falcon boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Christmas Eve, Arthur is surrounded by his closest friends as they are entertained by Tom and Taliessa. But all good things must come to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've kept you waiting, I know, but then again this chapter is the length of four, so you've no cause to complain. I am very busy with my thesis now, but I hope to have the next chapter out in a couple of weeks anyway.
> 
> The character of Taliessa is a genderbent version of Taliesin the bard, while Tom is very loosely based on Tom Thumb. If you want to know which actors I imagined playing them while I wrote, come [here](http://judin.livejournal.com/36663.html).
> 
> A major Thank You goes out to Brunettepet who gave this chapter a much-needed read-through. Any remaining mistakes and weaknesses are mine. Please point them out if you find any.
> 
> Please forgive my horrible poetry. It's supposed to be alliterative verse. Personally, I blame Beowulf for giving me the idea.
> 
> [Edit:] As has been pointed out in the comments, Merlin the legendary wizard was of course not named after a falcon. The name comes from the Welsh Myrddin, another legendary character that Geoffrey of Monmouth used when he created his Merlin. However, that origin is not compatible with the BBC series (unless Hunith named her baby after his uncle Myrddin ... or something), so I used the falcon instead, an idea that I am irresistibly fond of despite its inaccuracy.
> 
> [Edit2:] I am the biggest clotpole ever. I completely forgot that Taliesin is already a character on the show. He appeared in "The Crystal Cave". I do have the best luck, though, because in canon he is a seer, a sorcerer and a king, but not a bard, so Taliessa can stay. ... Huh. Maybe she's a descendant?

Arthur will admit he would have liked Merlin to have walked in on a different scene than the one that is currently causing him to gape. It isn’t inappropriate or anything, it’s just that Arthur likes to keep up the appearance of being utterly satisfied and even mightily impressed by George, in order that Merlin might have something to strive for. So for Arthur to be caught wrestling George for possession of a particularly gaudy piece of jewellery on the floor of his chambers, is rather unfortunate.

“Do close your mouth, Merlin. You look like an idiot,” Arthur says irritably.

“I’m not the only one,” Merlin replies.

George twitches in the headlock Arthur has him in, still determinedly contorting his body trying to place the necklace around Arthur’s neck.

“Merlin,” Arthur says sweetly and tightens his hold to cut off George’s air. “Will you please take that ugly bit of a woman’s bauble away from dear George and chuck it out the window for me?”

“It. Goes. With. Your. Eyes!” George says, wheezing.

Merlin bends down and teases the necklace out of George’s hands, while George kicks his legs and makes some furious noises not unlike those of a dog with his head stuck in a rabbit hole.

Merlin steps a few paces away to examine the piece. “Alright, Arthur, you can let go of him now.”

Arthur lets go somewhat reluctantly, and George rolls away, holding his throat and coughing. Arthur remains comfortably sprawled where he is. He catches George shooting him a dark look, and meets it with a smile.

“Come on, George. You know you want to.”

George’s glare intensifies. Arthur’s grin widens. Now that the jig is up with Merlin, he might as well have some fun.

“Come ooooon. Say it. You want to say it. You want it so bad you can taste it.”

George’s face contorts as he struggles to keep back what has to have become a long and impressive rant by now. Arthur has made it his secret mission to get on the man’s nerves until he breaks and gives Arthur the tongue lashing he deserves, but once again, George swallows it down, though it looks like it costs him a kidney to do so.

Arthur sighs theatrically. “I suppose it isn’t time yet. We’ll just have to keep at it until you’re ready.”

George’s face is as red as a Camelot banner at this point, and Arthur has to stand up and walk away to avoid cracking up. He goes to Merlin, and idly fingers the huge blue stone that makes up the centrepiece of the collar-like necklace. It was a gift from some lady or other who was hoping Arthur would marry her daughter. The world is full of ladies with daughters. Arthur wishes he could exile them all to an island somewhere.

“Hideous, isn’t it?”

Merlin hums in agreement. “And putting it on you certainly wouldn’t do it any favours.”

“Oh, funny man.”

Merlin puts the necklace back in the jewellery box that stands open on the table, and begins to rummage around the contents for an alternative. George drags himself up from the floor, and stands, swaying on his feet, watching Merlin’s hands a little dazedly.

“George is right, though,” Merlin mumbles. “You ought to have some sort of necklace on. Something that goes with the circlet.”

Arthur throws his hands up. “I’m not a woman.”

The corner of Merlin’s mouth twitches. “I know,” he says and makes the words indecent, which seems to be the final straw for George today.

“I leave His Majesty to you, Merlin.” He makes it sound like Arthur is some impossible beast, which, quite frankly, is completely true. “Meanwhile, I will go see that everything is in readiness for this evening.” He bows, maybe not quite as low as usual, and leaves without asking for permission, which Arthur considers a small victory.

Merlin shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be so mean to him. There are only so many servants willing to put up with you.”

Arthur goes and sits on the table, next to Merlin. “That’s exactly my problem; he puts up with me.” He examines his nails for a moment. “It’s your fault, actually.”

Merlin looks up from the jewellery box at last. “Oh?” he says slowly.

Arthur nods. “You’ve ruined me for other servants. I can’t be happy anymore unless my clothes are full of holes and my breakfast is half eaten before it arrives.”

Merlin bows his head over the box to hide his grin, and Arthur feels triumphant.

Finally, he holds up a different necklace. “This one.” A small golden dragon with a red gemstone for an eye hangs from a black cord.

“Well, it’s not hideous,” Arthur concedes. “I do like golden dragons.”

George has put Arthur in a deep red shirt under a long black jacket. It’s a shade finer than what Arthur is used to wearing, and he tries not to think too much about the amount of embroidery on the sleeves and around the buttons, because they make him feel silly. He appreciates the simplicity of chainmail; doesn’t like dressing up as if he were a more sophisticated man than he is. George had won in the end though, mostly because Arthur still feels the need to reassure him that he did nothing wrong dressing Arthur up for the disastrous hunt. Then George had brought out the necklace and Arthur had decided that violence was the only way out.

Merlin ties the pendant around Arthur’s neck. “You’re very handsome, trust me; we’re the ones that have to look at you all night.”

Arthur sighs, but doesn’t struggle. Now that they are knee to knee, there are other things he would rather be doing. He places his hands on Merlin’s hips and pulls him in between Arthur’s legs until they are breathing the same air. Merlin releases the fastened pendant and runs his fingertips up and down Arthur’s neck deliciously.

Their eyes meet, questioning. They haven’t done anything, anything at all, since the day before yesterday, when Arthur demanded Gaius and Merlin accept help in their work. Yesterday they hardly saw each other, and there had been a wall between them then. Not so today, and it is Merlin who leans in first, lips puckered. Arthur shakes his head briefly and meets him half way there, coaxing his mouth open for a hotter, deeper kiss. Merlin moans and Arthur echoes it with a pleased sound of his own.

“Missed this,” he mumbles against Merlin’s lips.

Merlin pulls back just to roll his eyes. “No satisfaction for a whole day. It must have been torture.”

Arthur pulls Merlin closer, pouting. “It was,” he insists, a little upset that Merlin apparently found it so much easier to bear.

But Merlin nuzzles Arthur’s bottom lip and tightens his arms around him. “Yeah okay, it was, a little,” he admits, a bit embarrassed.

He feels wonderfully solid in Arthur’s arms, and smells familiar and good. Arthur has missed this scent, he realises, remembers chasing it on his pillow last night, half-asleep and knowing only that something was missing. Merlin smells sweet and earthy, and today there’s a hint of soap in there as well.

“Will you ... will you come to me tonight?” Arthur asks, a little hesitant because he isn’t sure exactly where they stand.

But Merlin just flushes red and nods. His mouth quirks. “Can’t promise I’ll be up for anything, though. I’ll be drunk off my arse, like as not.”

“Lightweight,” Arthur teases. “So you’ll pass out like a log and I’ll get to lie awake and listen to you snore like a boarhound, is that what you’re offering me?”

Merlin’s eyes grow heavy-lidded, his gaze warm. “I offered you more, but you seemed strangely reluctant to take it at the time.”

Arthur suppresses a growl. “Is this what you want?” He reaches down and gives Merlin’s ass a generous squeeze.

Merlin groans harshly, taken by surprise, so Arthur does it again, and Merlin shakes with it.

“Yes.” He lowers his dark head and presses his face into Arthur’s shoulder, whining. “But not now, Arthur, you ass!”

Arthur apologises by rubbing Merlin’s firm bottom unhelpfully. Merlin sighs and squirms a little. He is ridiculously responsive to this, and Arthur has spent an extensive amount of time mapping his reactions. In truth, Arthur is eager too; he knows just how tight, how hot Merlin is inside, and just imagining how that would feel around his cock makes him swell in his breeches, but he wants to have time for it, and privacy, and neither are available to them right now.

“You were in such a state,” he says gently, nosing at the hair at Merlin’s temple. “I didn’t want to take you until I knew you were yourself.”

Merlin lets go of Arthur’s jacket, where his hands have clenched in it, and smoothes it down. “I am myself. It wasn’t the fever that wanted you.”

“Do you still want me?”

Merlin pulls back to look him in the eyes. “I will want you forever.”

Arthur wants to scoff at such a silly proclamation, but he can’t; something in Merlin’s eyes refuses to be taken for jest. It makes Arthur’s mouth go dry.

“Really?” he says and tries his damnedest to sound unaffected. “When I’m old, wrinkled and bedridden, you will still want me?”

Merlin doesn’t answer right away. Something in his expression goes a little off, his mouth twisting oddly. He gives a single, clipped nod. “I’ll be old too,” he says hoarsely. “We’ll be bedridden together, and love-making will be all we’ll be good for.”

He doesn’t sound like he believes it. Arthur wonders if maybe Merlin fears that Arthur will eventually replace him, but since Arthur cannot honestly say that he never will, he has no way to reassure his lover. The king must have an heir. Arthur hates to think about it, but he knows it is true. He smiles, as it is the only thing he can do right now. “That’s all far off, though. Tonight we are young.”

Merlin nods again, and tries a grin, but he seems to need a moment before he can answer. “Tonight we are young, and tonight we will be too drunk to get it up.”

Arthur sighs. “Well then we shall have to make a present of it in the morning.”

Merlin frowns thoughtfully. “Wait, am I giving you my precious arse, or will you be wrapping your morning wood in a bow?”

Arthur slaps his bottom. “Cheeky. I’ll have you know I have another present for you, and you can have it right now.”

He slides off the table, making Merlin step back, and goes to his wardrobe. George had offered them to Arthur to wear earlier today, but Arthur had had a sudden vision of Merlin in them, and had asked George to hang them aside. Now he pulls them out: a fine grey shirt and a thick, dark blue jacket.

Merlin draws an admiring breath. “I can’t wear that, Arthur.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “Why not? You’ve accepted my cast offs before.”

“These are not cast offs.” Merlin touches the heavy jacket with reverence, running his fingers over it like he can’t help himself. “I’ll look all airs, strutting around in my master’s clothes.”

Arthur feels a surge of animalistic pleasure. “Yes.”

Merlin looks up, startled. “You possessive bastard. Want to schedule me for a branding while you’re at it?”

Arthur pretends to consider it. “It would have to be somewhere visible,” he says very seriously. “Like on your forehead.”

Merlin shakes his head and lets his hand drop. “I can’t accept this.”

“We’d have to expand the law on branding livestock. I suppose we could get it done by my birthday. I can wait until then.”

“Arthur!”

Arthur pushes the clothes into Merlin’s hands. “You will accept them, and you’ll wear them too, at the feast.” Merlin opens his mouth to protest, but Arthur interrupts him. “That’s an order from your King. Disobey me on pain of death.”

Merlin doesn’t seem to appreciate the humour, so Arthur adds, “It’s either this or the hat.”

That makes Merlin grin despite himself. “After what we did with that hat, I’m not ever wearing it in public again.”

Merlin puts the clothes aside, and Arthur dives back into the closet to pull out a pair of black trousers. He throws it on top of the rest. “There. Now you’re all set.”

Merlin looks like he dearly wants to argue some more, so Arthur gets there ahead of him. “I could always add a pair of boots if you’re not happy, and a cloak to replace the one Mordred took with him.”

That shuts Merlin up fast. He stomps over to the chest in the corner to fetch one of Arthur’s circlets, muttering under his breath. Arthur catches “bloody prat”, and pretends not to hear the rest, as it is all rather treasonous.

Merlin chooses a simple golden circlet, again with red stones. He holds it high. “Come then, You Majesticness. The final touch.”

Arthur bows his head in a mockery of a coronation, and Merlin assumes his best pompous expression as he puts the circlet askew on Arthur’s head.

“You really are completely useless, Merlin.”

Merlin shrugs. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later, then?”

Arthur takes the circlet off again and puts it on the table. The feast won’t begin for a little while yet. He picks up Merlin’s new clothes and presents them to Merlin, who looks like he was hoping Arthur had forgotten.

“You will,” Arthur replies.

Merlin grins, darts in for one more kiss, and then leaves.

Arthur spends a quiet hour reading until George comes to fetch him. They go together to meet Princess Elena, who ranks highest among the guests and is therefore afforded the queen’s privilege of being escorted to the feast by the King himself. They have to wait a while outside Elena’s door because women take ages to get ready, but then Elena does look very lovely when she finally appears, dressed in a splendid green gown with white ribbons twined in her braided hair. Galahad is dressed to match his mother, and the stiff suit makes it look somewhat comical when he tries to set his usual exuberant pace down the corridor. Arthur bows and offers Elena his arm, and they follow the child.

On their way to the great hall, Elena tells Arthur about two gypsies she met earlier today, and how she invited them to entertain at the feast. Arthur readily gives his blessing for them to perform.

The great hall is already milling with guests. Three tables have been set up; the high table at the end of the room, and two more running down the length of the wall. They are covered in snowy white table cloths and decorated with tall candles and clusters of red berries. Fragrant rushes have been strewn on the floor, and green garlands twine around pillars. The silver plates and goblets have been polished into mirrors. Arthur wonders if George did it all himself, or if he let anyone else share in the fun.

Lord Caradoc, Lady Brangaine and Gwen are already seated at the high table. Arthur conducts Elena to the chair beside his own, and then looks around for Gaius, the only one missing. He catches sight of his physician sitting down with Gwaine at one of the long tables, with Merlin standing ready to serve behind them. Arthur shares a questioning look with Gwen before going down to find out what is going on. Gaius sees him coming and quickly rises to greet him with a bow that Merlin echoes. Arthur receives it with some irritation.

“What is this?” he asks.

Gaius glances around. “Given the … situation, Your Majesty, I thought it prudent to err on the side of caution.”

“You’ve earned your place, Gaius,” Arthur reassures him. “I wouldn’t give it to anyone else.”

Gaius inclines his head gratefully, but then steps closer and lowers his voice. “It is rather for your own sake, Sire. I am thankful for the leniency you have shown me, but I am a proven traitor, and there are those who wish that you had taken a firmer hand in the matter. This is a good opportunity to show them that you have.”

Oh, really? Arthur glances at Merlin, but Merlin is looking away. Arthur is beginning to get tired of these two making plans behind his back and deciding what is best for him. “If anyone wants to question the firmness of my hand, they can step up and challenge me themselves. In the meantime, I am going to firmly hand you to your proper seat.”

Gaius’s eyes widen comically.

Arthur puts on a charming smile and says more loudly, “Merlin can have this chair, and Sir Gwaine can ply him with wine until we’re assured to have at least one jester for entertainment tonight.”

There is some laughter from the immediate vicinity, and neither Gaius nor Merlin has any choice but to obey the King.

As he and Gaius weave through the crowd, Arthur says in a gentler, more playful tone, “Once I have spoken to Emrys, your name will be cleared, and those who doubt me now will realise what a great judge of character I am.” Gaius looks at him with some surprise and not a little pride, and Arthur has to clear his throat. “They will see,” he repeats, and believes it.

“Speaking of Emrys,” Gaius says “I have a message for you. She graciously accepts your invitation, and promises to visit the court on the fourteenth day.”

Arthur claps the old man on the shoulder. “Excellent. Then we will have another feast to welcome her.”

He catches George’s eyes as he goes to his own chair. George gives him a subtle nod. Everything is ready.

When Arthur comes to the table, everyone rises, and the last stragglers hurry to fill in the empty spots. Everyone looks to Arthur, and he looks around at them in turn, the lords and ladies from all the corners of Camelot and beyond, dear friends and new visitors, his proud knights, and, waiting along the walls, the men and women who make it all possible, his loyal servants. Finally, Arthur’s eyes land on Merlin, who is wearing Arthur’s gift to him. He looks like a prince. Loyalty and obedience. They might not always go together, but Arthur rather likes it when they do. Merlin looks solemn, though; far too serious for the occasion. A good feast ought to cheer him up, and it looks like it’s going to be a good feast indeed.

Arthur begins his speech. “I know you are all eager for the feast to begin-” There is some cheering. “And I would love to release you to your plates-” More cheering. “But I’m afraid I am bound by law to hold the usual speech, so you’re just going to have to endure a while longer.”

“That is a blatant lie!” Geoffrey shouts thickly, surprising everyone and creating laughter. “There is no such law!”

“I see some of us have started the celebrations early,” Arthur says, saluting his red-faced court genealogist. Geoffrey nods in agreement, looking very, very drunk.

“Let me begin,” Arthur goes on, “By welcoming you all to Camelot. You are my friends and my family, and I am very happy to have you all here. I know you think I’m required to say that, but I really mean it.” Laughter.

“This year has been good to us,” he says. “We’ve had our troubles, and I know they are fresh in your minds, but if you look further back you will see a year of peace, a good harvest, and the forging of many new bonds of friendship. Camelot is strong. And even in our recent struggles we can find things to be grateful for; we brought back our knights from Ismere, and were also able to liberate our Caerleon brothers from Morgana’s clutches.” The knights pound the tabletops and roar his name. Arthur grins even as he holds up his hands for peace. It feels amazing to be able to accept their pride in him again, like drinking clear water after living on old milk.

“As for the future ... We stand on the threshold of a great change. I know that it’s frightening. We face the unknown, a power we have held in terror for almost thirty years, but I must selfishly admit that I am grateful to magic, because it alone is responsible for allowing me to be here with my family tonight. A challenge has been laid down for us, to look again at the ancient forces of this world, and to forge a new peace with its people. I accept that challenge. I want it to happen. I believe that the changes to come will be for the better.”

He looks deliberately to Gaius, who, he is surprised to see, is standing stiffly with tears in his eyes. Arthur follows the old man’s line of sight and sees that Merlin is keeping his head bowed. Is he crying?

Arthur quickly raises his goblet. Time to finish up. “Rumours have it that a sorceress is wandering around my citadel.” Happily his exaggerated disbelief provokes a bit of laughter. “She might even be here tonight, hiding amongst us in her disguise. If that is so, then to her I want to say; eat, drink, and be merry with us. It’s Christmas Eve, and you are welcome at our table.”

Everyone picks up their goblets.

“Merry Christmas,” Arthur says, and it is echoed back by the crowd. He sees Merlin draining his goblet in one go, and yes, those are tears on his cheeks. Gwaine is patting him awkwardly on the back. Must be the stress of the past few days; Merlin only recovered his good mood today, after all, and he’s always been a bit sensitive.

The feast goes by in a happy blur. When a nervous young minstrel manages to drop his lute in the middle of a song, Arthur and Gwen both choke on their wine trying not to laugh. The poor man looks like he’s about to break down, so Arthur calls for a chair to be pulled up for him. He ends up seated between Percival and Lord Lionel, and they keep topping up his wine until he forgets his mortification, and his profession altogether.

The food is excellent, as always. Dish after dish is carried in on silver platters: roast pig, stuffed fowl, broiled fish in a variety of sauces, sugared apples, pies and puddings, and plates heaped with dates, figs and candies.

Arthur derives secret pleasure from watching as Merlin tries a little of everything and pokes a deepening bruise into Gwaine’s arm in his enthusiastic desire to share. Arthur does not often question the way his world works, but he does so now, wonders that as King he can eat like this every day, while the companions of his life experience it only once in a blue moon.

Merlin is also becoming increasingly red in the face, but so is everyone else. The minstrel won’t be the only one passed out on his plate by the end of the evening. There will be dancing first, though, and more entertainment. It doesn’t take long for dinner to be all consumed, the guests groaning at their full stomachs, and their chairs groaning under the new weight.

As the clutter of plates and cutlery is cleared away, Princess Elena stands and comes around the table to curtsey to Arthur. “Your Majesty, I would like to present, for your pleasure and the court’s, a remarkable act that Galahad and I discovered today.”

Arthur inclines his head for her to proceed, and she hurries out of the room, re-entering with two people in tow, a woman and a dwarf. The woman has an air of authority and grace to her, a maturity not just in the age-lines on her face, but in the calm way she accepts the many eyes that follow her across the floor. The dwarf is almost dashing with his easy grin and his bright red coat. The woman carries with her a large instrument case. Elena sits down again, while her guests stop in the middle of the room and make respectful obeisance to Arthur. He stands and bows to them in return.

“Welcome to Camelot,” he says, gesturing for their names.

The woman curtseys again. “My name is Taliessa, Your Majesty, once of Nemeth.” Her voice fills the room effortlessly. “My companion is Tom of Essetir.”

“You play?” Arthur asks, gesturing to the case.

“Oh, we do a little of everything, Sire,” the dwarf says, his voice surprisingly deep and pleasant. Taliessa puts the case down, and Tom quickly and deftly opens it to unpack the contents.

Arthur sits back. “Then we will be pleased to see whatever you wish to show us.”

Tom pulls out a small, strange-looking viol before pushing the case towards Taliessa with his foot. He tries the instrument against his chin and drags the bow over the strings, creating a single, vibrating note. The viol is made to his size, and looks ... complicated. Arthur knows nothing about music, but can at least tell that the thing must be custom made.

Taliessa takes the case with her a step back.

Tom spends a few moments tuning the instrument before setting it to his chin again. He closes his eyes, and silence seems to descend with his eyelids, until the only sound is the faint rattling of the windows on the other end of the room.

The first stroke of the bow is like a nail dragged down the spine, and it tumbles into a barrage of music the likes of which Arthur has never heard before. The strings howl to a rhythm that the racing heart would strive to match, and yet the madness is perfectly controlled, and surprisingly melodious.

The audience are stunned, but Arthur finds himself enjoying the rhythm, the way it whips up the blood and makes him feel like it's his own feet that are running. Tom's skill is amazing, his fingers never rest, and his eyes never open, as if the music has him tethered just as much as the audience.

Taliessa is smiling a little, a playful, girlish smile.

The melody crashes through a crescendo and then ends, as abruptly as it began, on a long, sweet note.

Arthur draws breath and realises it’s his first since the music began. His heart is pounding. He looks down the tables and sees wide eyes and flushed faces. Some of the ladies are fanning themselves, as are a few of the men. Merlin is breathing in little snatches, blinking rapidly as if startled. He looks a bit ravished, and Arthur would know because he likes to do the ravishing.

And that’s a bad train of thought. Arthur clears his throat and picks up his goblet, lifting it in a salute to Tom. "That was some performance."

The man bows. "A small display, Sire, forgive me. I find that it does away with my audience’s sometimes limited expectations."

Taliessa straightens up from the case, holding a mute cornett.

"Allow us to lay the storm to rest again," she says, and steps up next to Tom.

Arthur takes a deep breath to prepare himself, exchanges a look with Guinevere, who is grinning in delight, and nods. “Please.”

If they thought they knew what to expect, they were wrong. The next song is achingly gentle, carried at first by the mute cornett, which usual playfulness is replaced by a sound full of longing. The viol takes over like the wind plucks a leaf from a running river, only to lay it gently down in the water again as the two instruments combine forces. It's beautiful, though Arthur does his best to appear unaffected and manly. The song ends far too soon, and once again only silence follows. No one wants to be the first to speak.

Taliessa takes pity on the audience. “Tom and I also know a variety of dances, Sire, if our good sirs and ladies wish to stretch their legs after their feast.”

There are mostly nodding heads along the tables, so Arthur rises and spreads out his arms. “Then get up, you lazies. Move the tables.” Eager bodies spring into action and shift the tables back to the walls.

Caradoc, Gaius and Lady Brangaine remain at the high table, but Arthur offers Princess Elena his arm and escorts her down to the floor, and Gwen quickly follows with an eager Gwaine.

“Where did you find these two did you say?” Arthur asks Elena out of the corner of his mouth.

“Galahad sniffed them out.”

“Quite the little hound.”

As King, Arthur is expected to open the dance, and Elena once again has the honour of being his first partner. The first of many. Maaaany. Arthur has to dance with ALL the ladies, and though dancing can be fun with a good and familiar partner, he doesn't enjoy being passed around like a piece of meat, or having his toes trod on quite so much.

The first dance is good fun, though, Arthur and Elena leading a line of couples that dance in a circle around Tom and Taliessa. The musicians strike up a spirited tune, and now Taliessa makes the previously mellow cornett sound as sprightly as the viol. The music continues to be enchanting, each tune something new, each played with great skill and deep emotion. There is not a sour note to be found, not a single missed beat, and it becomes even more remarkable when Taliessa puts away the cornett in favour of a flute, only to exchange that again with a drum a couple of songs later. Tom's pace never slackens either, though sweat is standing on his brow, his forehead wrinkled in concentration.

Arthur is thankful for the extraordinary music, because it means most of his partners forget to be intimidated by him, or to try to flirt with him, though a few still step on his toes. He supposes it is too much to ask that the music should make its listeners better dancers.

Guinevere is a wonderful partner as always, having learned dancing from Morgana back in the day. They dance in silence, looking into each other’s eyes. Gwen seems to be searching for something in his, but she doesn’t say a word. Then Arthur catches Merlin watching from the crowd, and feels suddenly guilty. He will never dance with Merlin like this. When he looks back at Guinevere, she has turned her eyes away. Arthur kisses her hand apologetically afterwards, but she only curtseys, correct and distant.

Lady Mary is also oddly quiet when her turn comes, as if by some miracle, she talked herself empty on their walk earlier today. Her look is solemn, though, and Arthur finds himself feeling sympathetic towards her for the first time. He forgets so easily that for most women, finding a good husband is the most important pursuit of their lives, because the choice decides their lives. He wishes she knew how much happier she would be if she would only consider one of the men who genuinely care about her.

For this dance, Guinevere is partnered with Leon, and they look very ... “absorbed in each other” is the wrong phrase because they aren't actually looking at each other and yet Arthur can tell that they are both very much aware of the other even so. Leon's cheeks are faintly pink. Between Arthur, Mary, Leon, Gwen and Merlin, who doesn't participate but hasn't taken his eyes off Arthur once, the whole scene is a bit of an emotional mess.

Arthur reminds himself of the steps and tries to block out everything else. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Taliessa looking at him. He meets her eyes. They are terribly knowing.

The dancing goes on. Then, in the break between one song and another, while Arthur is getting a drink from George, Gaius is suddenly at Arthur’s shoulder.

“Sire, if I may, I’m afraid I have to leave early.”

“Oh?” Arthur swallows some wine, looks around and sees Merlin fidgeting impatiently by the door. “Is something wrong?”

Gaius follows his gaze. “A patient of mine, Sire, Sam Welk, you might know him.”

“Yes, of course.” Arthur puts his goblet down. “Merlin told me about him.”

“Seems his condition got suddenly worse. Merlin has a way with Sam, so I’m taking him with me.”

Arthur nods readily. “Merlin will want to see that Sam is alright.” As Gaius turns to go, Arthur grabs his shoulder. “I’ll withdraw as usual later, and you and Merlin are welcome as always to join me. Bring Sam too, if he has the strength and wish to come.”

Gaius bows. “The offer will honour him, Sire.”

Arthur catches Merlin’s eye before the physician and his apprentice can slip out the door. Merlin nods with a quick tug of the corner of his mouth; he has not forgotten their promise for tonight.

Then the music begins again. Arthur gives his goblet back to George and is swept back up in his duties.

After what feels like a dozen different dances, he is getting very tired. It seems strange that dancing should take such a toll on him when he could happily have spent this amount of time immersed in swordplay or wrestling. Maybe he is just a better swordsman than he is a dancer. Those who have not danced so much are laughing and talking amongst themselves, in increasingly loud tones as they consume more and more wine.

Princess Elena speaks to Taliessa, and the musicians put away their instruments. Taliessa steps forward and raises her voice above the crowd.

“My lords and ladies!”

There is a suggestion of power in her voice that makes everyone quiet down.

“I made a promise to my dear Princess Elena, that she should have a story tonight. If His Majesty permits, I would fulfil my promise now.”

Arthur tries not to look too relieved as he agrees, and goes to sit down. Guinevere is in her chair already and calls for more wine for him. She picks a little cake from a tray and puts it on his plate.

“A reward,” she says kindly when he looks questioningly at her. “For being such a good partner.”

“Then you should have one too.” He takes another cake and gives it to her. She bites into it with a look he can’t read. She is usually an open book to the observant, but tonight she is closed off. It comes neither from anger nor sadness, though. She seems ... thoughtful.

Elena sits down on Arthur’s other side, beaming in anticipation.

Tom has packed away the instruments and hops up to sit on the case, while Taliessa takes the stage alone.

“In this fine company, most minstrels would resort to a tale of marvellous adventure, or devastating romance, but I want to give you something new: a true story. It takes place _after_ a devastating romance and _before_ the beginning of marvellous adventure, and concerns something which this very holiday teaches us to give thanks for. The love of family. The hero of this tale is no great knight, she was no one at all, really, only a woman, only a mother.”

The men in the crowd murmur their displeasure, but the women lean forward in their seats eagerly.

“My heroine did, however, share an important trait with the most impressive of Camelot’s heroes.” With a simple gesture, she turns their attention towards Arthur. “Courage,” she says. “And not just any kind of courage, lords and ladies, for King Arthur dares where other brave men dare not. Arthur Pendragon dares to offer his enemies the hand of friendship! He flies in the face of tradition to grant knighthood to men of true merit, and nobility to the truly wise. Arthur Pendragon dares to love, and in the care of his love, Camelot flowers.”

It is certainly a daring speech to make, bordering on an emasculation of the King, but the wording is clever, because Arthur cannot turn down the praise without declaring himself a coward. Arthur feels no need to deny it, though. He feels proud, sitting here with Lady Guinevere, whom he dared to love, and Princess Elena, whom he dared to leave for both their sakes, and with Percival and Elyan and Gwaine in the crowd, who have served him as loyally as any man of noble blood.

Taliessa smiles. “Our story takes place in Essetir, that wild, untamed place where legends of old still linger in rock and river, and it concerns the birth of the greatest legend of them all. Emrys the sorcerer.”

A murmur travels through the audience. Arthur exchanges a look with Guinevere.

Taliessa begins.

“For weeks, the air had quivered thickly on the edge of rain, but none had come. The sky was poised on the brink of a storm, and in the castle of Lord Vortigern, they listened endlessly, restlessly for the sound of thunder.”

Vortigern. Arthur knows the name well, but has never met the man. He belongs to Uther’s time. This will be interesting.

“When the lord flew his falcons from the battlements, the birds stayed low over the land, but they were not interested in hunting. Instead, they called and called in their sharp voices, as if waiting for something, or someone, to answer them. It was late in March, but the nights were still dark. On that evening in particular, the air crackled, so that every breath seemed to tingle in the throat."

Suddenly, she slips into verse form.

"The world waited weary, eager for rain  
Better to weather a storm  
Than to snatch strangled breath from air unmoving  
Humid under low-hanging heaven  
Lightning lay tethered, mighty thunder rumbling  
In billowing clouds

Night fell on the Lord’s lofty hall  
The guards at the gate lit lanterns against the darkness,  
and huddled together  
A feeling of foreboding haunted the guard-house  
The storm a fell omen, its coming foretelling  
More than mere changing of chilly season  
Abruptly there rose a cry, rending the silence  
And as if commanded, the clouds let the rain come  
A pouring torrent, alike to an army  
Heralded proudly by drum-rolling thunder  
The guards sprung up from their positions  
There on the road, a stranger was stumbling  
Struggling to reach the light of the lanterns  
They prepared a greeting with risen spears  
But their enquiries died under drum-rolling thunder  
Their spears fell when they knew her for female  
And saw that she was expecting a child.”

Taliessa stops, and leaves the verse-form for a moment. “She was not only pregnant, but expecting the child that very night. The guards were alarmed that she was on her feet in her state, much less that she was out in this weather. She begged for shelter, and they quickly brought her into the castle. With the sound of thunder muted by stone walls, the kicking child seemed to grow quiet, and the woman to regain some strength. She was brought before the lord of the castle, and though she was swaying on her feet, he questioned her for a long time.

She stood afore the high-seat, graceful in burden  
belly swollen, her eyes with steel tempered  
Gracious Lord Vortigern gazed long on her  
Rose from the throne, intent on her story  
Many an inquiry made he of the lady  
Of what house was she, what reason compelled her  
to leave her village in this late hour  
Few would sally as she had sallied  
out all alone in this outlying fen-land  
 _“Whence are you bound, and to whom is the babe born?_  
 _Why weary journey in our wild weather?”_  
Well he perceived the secrets she sheltered,  
but each implied insult was endured in silence

Then proudly the lady the high lord answered  
The spectators all were struck by the strength in her  
Of peasant-stock was she, yet solemn like noble  
Eyes like the blue sky and hair dark as tar

_"On the long road I have carried great sorrow_  
 _the boy in my belly is my only blessing_  
 _In this late hour, my name matters little_  
 _The child I carry will tarry no longer_  
 _I beg of Lord Vortigern only this one thing_  
 _A roof for our shelter and bed for the birthing_  
 _And that the Lord's questions will wait until morning”_

Old was Vortigern, and mean, full of greed and thwarted pride, but he was not entirely heartless. He let the woman stay, and a healer was sent to help her, for the child would surely come in the night.

Outside the storm raged, rain whipped the walls  
of the white dragon's hall, the windowpanes shook  
with the fury of thunder, and the hearth-fire burned  
as in furious answer.”

Arthur's eyelids grow heavy as he listens, though he is in no danger of falling asleep. The rhythms of the verses are hypnotic, the scene seems painted in the air before him; the fire-lit bedroom, the woman's face shining with sweat, and the midwife's hands held out and ready to cradle the newborn.

“The labours went on all night. Then, as morning approached, at last the child came, and he entered the world with a cry.

A squall that shook the seething storm apart  
The torrent trembled, mighty thunder hushed  
and sooth'd the lightning strikes that also they  
might listen to the sound of life new-born  
For to the weeping world this boy was more  
than merely clay of common man and wife  
His breath a summerwind on bending bough  
His eyes the sea that stretches endless on  
with secrets deep and dark, in breast he'd keep  
the craft of ancient kings and all the magic words  
His voice a dragon's roar that trumpets up the morning  
commanding beast in glen and bird in awning  
This boy had been brought forth as balm to burn  
the groaning burden of a wicked world

Alas, the woman in the birthing bower  
that cradled child before the helpless mother  
knew not of ancient whispered prophecies  
that promised all the island prosperous peace  
 _"A demon,"_ cried she, holding him aloft  
 _"His eyes are golden like the grey warg howling._  
 _What wild-thing of the underworld is sire_  
 _to such a child, who wields such godless power?"_  
She thrust the boy away to mother's breast  
 _"My lord I'll tell and he will deal with you._  
 _Your presence curses all the house, I'm sure._  
 _But fire will drive you and your spawn to door.""_

The crowd is hanging on Taliessa’s every word, the men as much as the women. After finishing the tirade of the healer woman, Taliessa lets silence rush in to fill the room for a moment, before continuing in a low, urgent voice.

“The mother pressed her child to her, too tired to weep for her fate, the very one she had come so far to avoid, but the babe had a far greater destiny waiting for him, and so it was that in their hour of need, the two were aided by another unlikely hero.

In stole the meanest retainer of mighty Vortigern  
And with quick wit he implored the lady  
 _“Follow me swiftly, wait not for the soldiers_  
 _My master means to waylay you and your boy_  
 _He will want the power of the infant for his own_  
 _And heaven help us all should he lay hand on it_  
 _I pray you lady, follow if you can”_

By some wondrous power, the woman rose from the birthing bed, and she stood, trembling. No feat was too great if it meant the safety of her child. Her rescuer nodded in satisfaction.

_“I will secret you and your son in silence to stable  
From there ere they know it, we will be gone.”_

The man was true to his words, leading her carefully down through the house, past the kitchen, where the clamour had not yet come, and out a side door to the stables. There too, things were still calm. The man pressed the woman to hide herself behind the wall, while he went in to fetch a horse. She hummed a lullaby for the restless, hungry child. Minutes passed and she struggled to hold panic at bay. Had she been betrayed? Or had her rescuer been thwarted somehow? Finally, he appeared with a saddled horse. Now their only option was to make for the forest.

 _“The trees will shelter us from violent eyes_  
 _But we must make it to them, ere the bells knell”_  
So slowly, and with heart in throat, they snuck away  
Towards the safety of the forest paths  
And every moment they expected all the air  
To fill with cries of their foes following

Up rose the cry, there came the soldiers running  
Here was the moment to pray for a miracle  
Readily, Emrys raised his hand in answer  
And Vortigern’s falcons came when commanded  
Now wheeling, now wailing, now sweeping down  
To claw at their adversaries running in terror  
Meanwhile our heroes hurried to safety

Finally the canopy closed about them  
Hiding hide and hair from hot pursuit  
The horse whickered, well-satisfied with sacred burden  
The baby bundled and bound to the saddle  
reached chubby hands out to hold the heavens  
and laughed as the rising sun lent golden hue  
to all the world, each new-sprung leaf and limb  
felt hope in marrow, harrowed night was through  
the magic of the world had been reborn in him.

Into the ether vanished horse and riders  
For years, legend would leave them to roam there  
‘til Emrys rose to ravage the pages  
Of history, now the words of prophets  
Are spoken openly, joyfully with revelry  
The forgotten people emerge from obscurity  
To join their brothers and sisters in Albion  
Only one part of the puzzle is missing  
The dragon born to devour the pieces  
And forge in his fire one folk out of foemen  
Then hand in hand with Emrys the wanderer  
Unite fair Albion under one banner.”

Taliessa stands for a moment and lets her final words sink into the silence. Then she takes a step back and curtseys. Applause breaks out.

Arthur’s heart is beating fast. Dare he believe that the dragon she spoke of is Camelot’s dragon? Or is Taliessa attempting to deceive him? Foremost in his mind now is a powerful suspicion. A true story, she had called it. What if it is? He rises and claps with everyone else, but watches Tom more closely than Taliessa. The little man looks like his mind is far away. Is it imagination or recollection that occupies him?

When the dancing begins again, Arthur’s performance is perfunctory and no more. He is aching for the chance to speak to the musicians alone. Fatigue eventually distracts him, though. He had thought he was quite recovered from heart-aches and physical wounds alike, but apparently he isn’t, because his stamina today is truly pathetic.

Arthur is dancing with Juliana, one of the twins, and one of the last ladies present, thankfully. She knows the steps well but is stiff as a board in his arms, and she hasn't looked up from her feet once. Arthur, terrified of getting her hopes up and having another unrequited love on his hands, doesn't do anything to make her more comfortable. After this there is only one more dance with Elena to close it all out, and then, oh god and then he is going to sit down and not get up again until it's time for bed. He's kind of agreeing with Merlin right now that tonight would be a terrible time for important love making.

He bows a goodbye to Lady Juliana without really seeing her, and goes blindly to Elena, who holds out her arms to him and pulls him into a good hug, laughing.

"Poor King Arthur," she says, stroking his back. "You must be so tired."

Behind her, Galahad sits on his nurse's lap, his mouth bulging around a sugary treat.

Arthur finds himself hugging Elena closer with a sudden rush of emotion, tears standing in his eyes. A fierce longing for his own mother sweeps over him, but he pushes it away and down and out of sight because he needs to lead the last dance and people will be looking. People are always looking at him.

Elena is making little soothing noises, he realises. He pulls himself away, and actually has to look down when she leaves her hands on his shoulders and smiles at him like she too is proud.

“Last one,” he says gruffly, because he needs to say something.

“Yes.”

But as he leads Elena out on the floor, Galahad slithers from his nurse’s lap and comes running over. He pulls on his mother’s skirts, and when the nurse tries to take him away, he screams in protest. The sound burrows into Arthur’s ear, and his head is heavy like lead. He feels helpless; he doesn’t know how to deal with children, how to speak to them. He has, he realizes with a cold shudder, no experience to draw on from his own father. Arthur too had nurses, endless lines of them, and a father figure whom he remembers, from those first years, mostly as a pillar of stone. Too often, their moments together were public, though he treasures the memory of a handful of moments that were only theirs, times of warmth, of laughter and play. He just doesn’t know how to translate them into action.

But Elena knows exactly what to do; she sweeps Galahad into her arms and swings him around. “Will you dance with us, Sir Galahad?”

The boy hiccups and rubs at his wet, red eyes.

She kisses his soft, white cheek. “Come, my knight; King Arthur needs us, or this feast shall surely last forever.”

Galahad nods, so Elena moves him to her hip and gives her free hand to Arthur. “With this dance we will break the spell, and release the knights and damosels to their beds,” she whispers excitedly.

Galahad giggles, his face smooshed sleepily against his mother’s chest. Elena gives him another kiss, on his forehead. Galahad eyelids are drooping. He finds his thumb with his sugar-sticky mouth and sucks, eyes closing. Relief courses through Arthur.

“We will play a lullaby for the tired dancers,” Taliessa says, voice low, and Tom readies a small brass flute. The melody this time is familiar, an old lullaby, but after a while the musicians enhance it, adding a second melody on the cornett that twines gently through the first.

More and more couples join in behind Arthur and Elena, moving to the music. Step and stand and step and step, and turn and bow and turn again and join hands and step and stand and step and step.

Then Taliessa begins to sing, a different set of words than Arthur is used to.

_"Child of mine why weep you so_  
 _As though your grief was something new_  
 _Look up, you’ll see that all the stars_  
 _Are winking down at you_

_The stars return each night to tell us love is pure and true_

_And when the stars wink out as one_  
 _And only the dreaded void remains_  
 _My little one I’ll still be here_  
 _To sing away your pains_

_Until the sun arises for to burn away our chains"_

Galahad sleeps on his mother’s shoulder. Elena curtseys to Arthur, and he bows, signalling the end of the dance. No one speaks as Elena and the nurse carry Galahad from the room; only when they are gone is the talk renewed, in lowered tones.

Arthur feels that he could have gone straight to bed now, selfishly stolen Merlin from the side of the sick and bundled under the covers with him, drunken snoring and all, but the night is young and he has a tradition to uphold. It’s a pleasant tradition, one he began for his own sake, to hold on to a sense of himself as man and not just king. He invited Elena to join in earlier that day, and the others involved have a standing invitation. He can see them setting their goblets down and saying their goodbyes to the other guests. Only Merlin and Gaius will be missing, but they know where the party will be, and will follow when they can.

Arthur passes through the crowd with George tailing him. The guests bow and wish him “Merry Christmas” as he passes by. Tom and Taliessa are packing away their instruments and making ready to leave. He intercepts them.

“I want to thank you both,” he begins. “You made the night unforgettable. The doors of Camelot will always be open to you should you wish to return.”

They bow. “You honour us, Sire,” Taliessa says.

“If you are not too tired, I would like to talk with you for a while. I will be withdrawing to my chambers with a small party, and I am sure they are as curious about you as I am.”

“If His Majesty can promise a sip of wine and something to eat, I will happily talk his ears off,” Tom says with a wink.

They go together to Arthur’s chambers, Elyan, Gwaine, Percival and Leon following. Gwen slips away to change her dress, so she and Elena arrive a little later, both in more comfortable clothing. Elena has put Galahad, and his nurse, to bed. The ladies have let their hair down and wear simpler dresses of wool, with thick shawls draped over their shoulders.

Arthur’s chambers are warm from a merry fire, and extra chairs have been brought in to seat everyone around the table. There is more wine, and dried salted meats and fruit to eat. Candles burn solemnly between brass bowls and golden goblets. Arthur conducts Gwen to sit by his place at the end of the table, and shows Taliessa to the other side. Tom sits next to Taliessa, Elyan sits next to Gwen, and the others take the remaining chairs.

Arthur removes the circlet and puts it away in the chest. He touches the dragon pendant around his neck, but decides to keep it on. He glances towards the bed in its shadowy alcove, and feels a frisson of desire and anticipation.

As he returns to the table, he finds George holding out his chair. Arthur waves him away. “Sit down, George. We can pour our own wine tonight.”

George looks affronted, but Gwaine gets up, slings a hand around the boy’s shoulders and drags him down the table, getting a goblet along the way and pushing it into his hand. “Come on, Georgie. Live a little. Remove the stick for a night.” George opens his mouth to protest and Gwaine expertly trips him into a chair.

True to his word, Arthur takes the decanter and walks around the table, pouring wine for everyone. George closes his eyes when it’s his turn, and whimpers in pain even as the others laugh. Arthur, meanwhile, is trying to decide how he wants to go about what he means to do. He pours wine for himself, sets the decanter down and lifts his goblet in a toast.

“To our excellent musicians, with the hope that they return next year.”

“And the one after that,” Elyan adds.

“Hear, hear!”

Tom and Taliessa incline their heads, and Tom drinks deeply.

“Oh, that is good stuff,” he says, smacking his lips happily. “Worth every blister.”

Taliessa is watching Arthur, though. “You have a question for us, Sire,” she says.

Arthur nods. “Every storyteller likes to claim that his story is a true one, and at first I didn’t believe you any more than I would anyone else, but now I’m thinking that not only was the story true, it was so right down to the details.”

Taliessa neither confirms nor denies it, but waits for him to continue. Tom takes another long drink.

“But how did you come by the story? It must have happened more than twenty years ago. Did the nurse tell it? Did the men from the guard-house? I don’t think so. You would have needed all of them to piece together the whole truth. The only two who could give you the details were the mother herself, and the man who helped her escape.” He pauses, realising there is one other. “And Emrys, but for once I think we are looking at a different culprit. So either Taliessa the songstress is the mother of Emrys …” Gasps from the others around the table. “Or Lord Vortigern’s meanest retainer went on to become a superior violist.”

There is a long pause.

“How did you figure it out?” Tom asks, looking into his goblet.

Arthur shrugs. “The biggest clue was the horse, actually. If the man who saved mother and child had been full grown, he could have sat behind her and helped her stay in the saddle, but he never offered to. Of course he could have been very young, or have never ridden before, but even then he would probably have offered. Once the idea was in my mind, it made too much sense to deny. It would also explain how Taliessa knew the story.”

Tom smiles tightly. “I _was_ young, _and_ incompetent in the saddle, but you are right, of course; first and foremost I was too short to help her.”

“You saved her life,” Guinevere interjects. “That is not too short of anything.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“And the question, my lord?” Taliessa asks.

Arthur sighs and sits down. “I would like to hear the story again. No doubt you know that Emrys is here in Camelot. That would be why you chose to tell that story in the first place. As King I find myself entering into peace talks with a woman I know next to nothing about. I need something more than prophecies and songs of praise; I need to know that I am dealing with a person, someone of the same clay as the rest of us. Someone whose heart I can speak to.”

Tom’s brow furrows in confusion. “… I’m sorry, did you say a woman?”

“My physician is a friend of Emrys’. He confessed to us some time back that the venerable old sorcerer,” - More like crazy old goat - “is actually a young woman.”

Tom and Taliessa exchange looks. “Really?” Tom says. “And you … trust your physician, Sire?”

Arthur closes his eyes, feeling a headache coming. “You’re about to tell me that Emrys really is a man. Have you any proof?”

Tom frowns. “He was a remarkable baby, but I am pretty sure what I saw beneath his swaddling clothes was no conjurers trick.”

“Of course, your physician might be perfectly innocent,” Taliessa points out. “Perhaps it is Emrys who has told him a different truth.”

Oh yes, that is a headache.

Gwaine slams his fist on the table. “I’m getting really sick of this. I have no quarrel with magic, but this sorcerer is playing us all for fools.”

Arthur holds up a hand to calm him down, but the hand is trembling slightly. “I feel the same. Which is why I want to hear the story from the horse’s mouth, to give us something real to hold on to at last.”

Tom shrugs. “Well, I can’t produce the horse, Sire, but my own account might suffice you.” He pours himself another gobletfull of wine and sits back, sighing luxuriously. “Where to begin? A little about myself perhaps? I was actually born in Camelot, but was, at a young age, part of the entourage that fled Camelot after old Ursus was executed by Constans.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Elyan says, waving for a stop. “You’ve lost me already.” There are more confused looks around the table.

This is Arthur’s own history, so he takes up the thread of the narrative. “My grandfather Constans was the first King of Camelot. He sailed his army across the channel with his two sons, Uther and Aurelius, and carved out a land to rule in the heart of the island. Ursus was a powerful lord sworn to Constans, and his son Vortigern was my father’s best friend.”

“They were ferocious warriors,” Tom adds with relish, peeling an orange. “Young Uther was called the Red Dragon, his armour always stained with blood, and Vortigern, white-haired from childhood, was called the White Dragon. Their enemies fled before them.”

Arthur nods. “No one could stand in their way, but my grandfather was wise enough to only take as much land as he could properly defend before settling down to build this castle. Lord Ursus, however, wasn’t satisfied. He wanted the throne. He sent assassins against the King, but my uncle Aurelius stopped them, though he took a lethal wound in the fight. Ursus was executed as a traitor.”

Tom chews thoughtfully on a piece of orange. “Vortigern had had no part in his father’s plan, but the execution of old Ursus nonetheless drove a wedge between him and Uther that would last for the rest of their lives. He gathered his household and fled to Essetir.”

“Where enemies of Camelot have always been welcome,” Arthur adds with regret. “I don’t think they spoke again in life, but I know my father thought of him often.”

Tom nods, mouth full of orange. After swallowing, he says. “Understand, I was just a child at the time; my father was a vassal to Ursus, and my mother a cook in his household, so we were brought along to Essetir. My father died fighting off Uther’s pursuers.”

There is some uncomfortable shifting around the table, but Tom just laughs. “Relax, good people. I have lived for too long and seen far too much to hold a grudge because a soldier once died in battle. He was on the wrong side, anyway, my poor father: Vortigern was an arrogant, greedy bastard. I’d say the kingdom of Camelot was well rid of him. Unfortunately, I was not.”

He finishes the last of the orange and sucks the juice off his child-fingers. “My mother remained with Vortigern until her death not many years later, at which point I was suddenly forced to make my own living, but there is precious little work suited for people like me. Vortigern was not interested in helping me, but I had a way of amusing his guests, who were of the primitive kind, so I was soon hired as an entertainer. Make no mistake; it was a far cry from the kind of show you saw today. Mostly I got kicked around. They liked watching the deformed little man running for his life.”

Elena and Guinevere make sounds of distress, but Tom seems remarkably at peace with his past. “It was miserable, but it was a living, and I didn’t know that anything better could be achieved by someone like me. Not until I met Taliessa.” He gives her an adoring smile.

“That’s enough Tom,” she says, not unkindly. “Get to the story.”

Tom nods quickly, and grows serious. He swirls the content of his goblet around, eyes distant as he narrows his focus to that one important night.

“On the night of the storm, my lord was holding a banquet. It was late, and most of the guests were quite drunk. If you want to imagine the scene, you must picture a long room with a low ceiling, lots of more or less fine folk milling about, wine stains on the floor, and a lot of drunken noise. Lord Jestan had his hand up Lily’s skirt, and the dogs had torn down a plate and were fighting over the meat. Vortigern sat in the high chair at the end of the hall, brooding as was his wont. His strength and good health had gone by then, and he suffered from sleeplessness. I had long since given up trying to entertain anyone and was plucking the strings of my lute mostly for show. Then the door went up and in came two soldiers supporting what looked like a large, drowned cat between them. As they came into the light I recognized her for a girl, not twenty years of age. She was running with rainwater and shivering violently, and in her arms she cradled her pregnant belly, which looked huge on her little frame.” Tom runs his hand over his chin. “I remember how long it took before the noise died down. Vortigern did not bother to control his guests, just watched the woman while we waited. She watched him back with a calm that was strangely captivating. She wasn’t unafraid, I believe, but she mastered herself, moment by moment, determined to remain uncowed by his piercing gaze.”

He takes a slow drink.

“Finally, curiosity created silence. _“What have we here?”_ asked Vortigern. _“Why have you left your posts?" “We found this woman walking in the storm, my lord. She needs shelter.”_ Vortigern was unimpressed. The girl straightened up and pushed out of the soldiers’ hold to stand on her own. She swayed, but did not fall. _“I ask only for a bed for the night, my lord. I have coin to pay for myself.””_

Tom sighs.

“It was when she spoke that I first realized she was beautiful. Not in a striking way, certainly not like the ladies here tonight.” He nods to Guinevere and Elena, while Taliessa rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “She was of a more elusive sort. Already her eyes carried the weight of great sorrow, and there were lines of worry at their corners, but her mouth was gentle, her manner quietly dignified. I had never seen anything like her in my short life. She stood taller than herself, while Vortigern circled her like a vulture. _“Why would a woman in your state go out in such a storm?”_ he wanted to know. _“To find the father of the child, perhaps? I notice he is not with you.”_ The insinuation was cruel, but the girl did not rise to the bait, despite the laughter of the crowd. _“Where I go from here is of no importance, and need not trouble my lord, but I do not wish to deliver my child to the rain,”_ she answered. He looked down at her over his hooked nose. _“I am the lord of many men, and must provide an example for them. It cannot be said of me that my house is a place for whores and their bastards.”_ Lightning flashed in her eyes, but what could she do? She needed his blessing desperately; there was no time for her to find other shelter. _“As we are neither, that will not be a problem.”_ For a long moment, they stared each other down. The crowd was ready to devour her, Vortigern to crush her. Had she shown the least weakness, he would have thrown her out, but she did not flinch. It saved her. Vortigern sneered and turned his back. _“Take her downstairs. She can have a bed, if she can find someone willing to share.”_ "

Tom takes another break and another drink. “I quickly got to my feet and snuck out of the hall ahead of them. I ran downstairs to the servants’ quarters and told the women in the kitchen what had happened. Happily, the cook had a good heart and a practical mind. She didn’t ask unnecessary questions, but immediately set water to boil, got a room cleared out and sent a girl to get Vortigern’s healer woman. By the time the soldiers came downstairs with their charge, everything was ready to receive her. I stood in the doorway as they helped the girl to bed. I couldn’t seem to leave. _“What is your name?”_ I asked her, wanting to be as brave as she had been. She looked at me curiously, but the cook let her know what I had done. _“Thank you,”_ she said, and gave me a genuine smile. It made her look so kind. Then I was chased out. When I got back upstairs to my lord, I was beaten for leaving. Well, it was mostly to give my lord some entertainment, as was, after all, my job.”

He shakes his head as if to dismiss it. “Which meant the late night hours found me in the mews. It was my favourite place to go when I was feeling miserable, which was most of the time. I had always admired the falcons, and loved to watch as my lord flew them. They were everything I was not: graceful, fierce, powerful, and they accepted me among them, unlike my own kind. I think I spent more time in the mews with them than I did in the castle itself. There was an open window high up on the wall where I used to perch. That night, I climbed up and sat watching the storm, dozing and waiting for morning.”

He looks around at the men and women around the table, with narrowed, calculating eyes. “You are used to the extraordinary, I would imagine.”

Elyan laughs a little. “Yeah. Some more than others.”

Gwen punches him in the shoulder. “That’s because others have the wits to leave ghosts alone, unlike some.”

Tom raises an eyebrow.

Gwaine is chuckling too. “Sometimes I wonder if magic knows it’s banned; it seems to show up so often.”

“Maybe we’re just that charming to be around,” says Leon.

“Or maybe it comes for the excellent wine?” suggests Tom.

“Or for destiny,” says Taliessa seriously, killing the jest. She has that look in her eyes again that Arthur doesn’t like.

“Good,” Tom says, sitting up more comfortably in his chair. “Then you will not turn your noses up at the rest of my tale. I woke on my perch just as the sky began to lighten. Not that you could tell through the rain. I was just about to go down to see if the child had arrived when there came such a cry from the house as nearly made me fall to my death. It was the baby. The cry rang clear as a horn through the valley, and in the same instant, the storm ceased utterly, the rain disappearing like mist before the sun. In the profound silence after that single cry, every falcon in the mews opened its beak and cried back in greeting.” Old wonder makes Tom smile even now. “It was extraordinary.

I hurried back inside, but on the stairs I was almost bowled over by the healer woman, who was coming up from below, screaming bloody murder as she ran. I made a quick decision and followed her. She burst into the great hall where my lord could still be found, and before his seat she shrieked some nonsense about a demon child and laying with beasts. I hid in the doorway and listened. Vortigern eventually got enough sensible words out of her that both he and I understood that the child was far from ordinary. My lord and I reacted very differently however. I cannot explain why, but I felt with all my heart that neither the girl nor her child was evil, and I wanted only to protect them. Vortigern could not have cared less about good and evil, he wanted power, and saw the child only as a potential weapon for himself. I ran downstairs as fast as my little legs could carry me. The cook was alone in the room with the girl, who after labouring all night looked completely exhausted. In her arms she was cradling a dark-haired boychild. _“You must run!”_ I shouted. _“My lord means to take your baby from you.”_ For a moment she only looked at me, and of course the idea of her running anywhere in her condition was absurd; she couldn’t even stand. Then the baby opened his eyes. They burned like gold. The storm was in them, and when they looked at me I felt as if I could have slain a giant. He reached out to his mother and touched her skin, and immediately colour returned to her cheeks. She kissed his forehead, wrapped him more securely and swung her feet out of bed. _“Don’t be silly, girl, you won’t make it to the door,”_ the cook said, but she shut up fast when the girl not only rose, but walked calmly to my side. _“Can you lead the way?”_ she asked me. I nodded. The cook whipped off her shawl and put it around the girl’s shoulders. _“You’d better hurry. I will stall them as much as I can.”_ The girl thanked her for all her help, and then she and I and the little one snuck away as the sun rose over the horizon. I stole us a horse-” He frowns. “Actually, I prefer to think of the horse as payment for putting up with my master for all those years.” He chuckles darkly at his own wit.

“We crept to the treeline with our hearts in our throats, and were so, so close, when the first shout came. From the castle, soldiers were running towards us, and no magic in the world could make either me or the poor girl outrun them, but once again the child saved us. He cried out, not like a child at all, but like a bird of prey. There was a terrible sound like wood splintering, and before our eyes the mews collapsed, releasing the falcons from their tethers. The birds rose into the air with triumphant cries and swept down on our pursuers, clawing and pecking at them. The girl and I hurried into the forest. For a long time we ran with only our own panting breaths in our ears, but eventually we dared to slow down. There were no more signs of Vortigern’s men.”

The story is coming to an end.

“We travelled together for a couple of days, stopping where we could to beg for food. All too soon it came time to part ways. She was going back to her village, which she had left to keep her child’s powers a secret from those who would not understand him. I, on the other hand, wanted to travel, to see if I could not find a better place than the one I had known so far. I still did not know her name, and understood that she would not tell me, but I asked about the child. _“Have you named him yet?”_ She shook her head, running her hand over his dark hair. I remember he was lying quietly in her arms, his eyes no longer golden, but as blue as the sky.”

The room has grown hot, the air stifled. Arthur gets up, gestures for George to remain seated when he would follow, and goes to the window, opening it and letting in an icy breeze. The hearth dances wildly, dislodging the shadows on the wall. Arthur closes his eyes.

Tom’s voice is quiet as he relives his memories.

" _“I have been waiting for his father,”_ the girl said. _“But I don’t think I will ever see him again.”_ She looked at me. _“Will you give him a name? So we’ll have something to remember you by.”_ "

Tom chuckles. “Of course I blanked. You would have thought I hadn’t heard a single boy’s name in my life.” He laughs. “I’ll bet she quickly regretted asking, when all I could think of was to name the boy Merlin.”

Arthur’s eyes fly open.

Something hits the floor with a violent clang.

The sky outside the window is pitch black without a star. If more words are spoken, Arthur does not hear them. The world has shattered, and in this new wasteland there is neither sound nor sight, only the black void and the deathly cold that reaches out to embrace him.


	27. Howling at the stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is dead, and with him Merlin's hope begins to wither as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out there are further contradictions in the Uther/Vortigern backstory in the last chapter. In "The Sword in the Stone Part 2" Merlin and Arthur discuss Bruta, the first King of Camelot. So fuck me. I even named Arthur's dog after this guy and I still didn't remember him. On the other hand, Uther did not canonically inherit the throne from Bruta's line, so let's pretend that at some point the five kingdoms fell back into chaos and Constans, whose ancestors had maybe been exiled or something (happens all the time in Geoffrey's "History"), decided to return and reclaim the lost country. I might do some rephrasing of chapter 26 to reflect that.
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be a lot longer and end somewhere else. However, I am swamped with thesis work right now, so you'll have to bear with me. Can't make any promises as to when you will see more.

Sam is so big from head to toe that the sheet cannot cover all of him. His feet stick out at the bottom in a grotesque parody of a sleeping man. Merlin sits on the bench and looks at the corpse while the room spins slowly around him.

Gaius gently removes the dead man’s hand from the grip of the old woman sitting by his side. She is still asleep; Merlin’s spell had been a little too effective in his drunken frustration. Gaius touches her shoulder, and she wakes with a start.

“Oh! Oh dear me, I dozed off. How is he?”

Gaius sits down opposite her and takes both her hands in his without replying. He gives her time to notice the sheet that covers Sam’s face.

“Oh …” she says, and she blinks rapidly, eyes going shiny. “Was there nothing that could be done, Gaius?”

Gaius shakes his head, glancing briefly at Merlin. “We did everything we could.”

In his palm, Merlin can feel the memory of Sam’s sluggishly beating heart: slowing, slowing, and then beating no more, even as Merlin had raged at him, roared spells at him, until Gaius had pulled him away and sat him down on the bench.

_“It’s over, Merlin. You did your best.”_

But it wasn’t Merlin’s best. Merlin hadn’t even tried. Albion should have been united by now, and magic made free. Alice should have come back and filled this house and Gaius’ life with laughter, flowers and healing. Camelot should have been full of magic, helping the old, the sick and the needy. But Merlin hasn’t tried: hasn’t brought it up with Arthur, hasn’t tried to change the King’s views … never confessed. Even now the thought of laying himself bare terrifies him. When he weighs the reward of freedom against the risk of being chased from Arthur’s side...

The stone of guilt grows in his gut until he can feel it crushing his lungs.

Gaius helps the old lady to rise. She smiles down at Sam. “It sure will be quiet without him living next door.”

“Someone new will come along soon enough,” Gaius says. “We old ones know well that life goes on.”

She lets Gaius escort her towards the door, but on the way she stops and puts a hand on Merlin’s knee. “Don’t be sad, dear boy. You gave him hope, and he liked his new job very much.”

Merlin can’t even nod.

Gaius sees the old lady out and closes the door behind her. Then he comes down and sits beside Merlin. After a little while he says, “She’s right, you know. This is not your fault.”

Merlin feels only self-loathing. “If I had-” His voice breaks as the first tears spill. Gaius leans towards him, offering his shoulder and his quiet support, but Merlin’s shame is too monstrous to be spoken out loud.

“Sometimes it is simply time,” Gaius says.

Rage flames up in Merlin. He rises and rounds on Gaius. “No, it’s not!” The ground sways aggressively and Merlin almost stumbles over his own feet. He puts a hand to his spinning head. “It’s not time! I’m going to stop it!”

Gaius looks confused for a long moment, before realisation dawns. Merlin turns away because he doesn’t like it when Gaius looks inside of him like that. Especially now. Merlin is a greedy, selfish monster who only, only cares about Arthur, but it is too late now to redeem himself; this is all he knows how to do.

Gaius’ hands fall on his shoulders. “Why don’t you go lie down for a while? You’ve had too much wine.”

Merlin shakes his head. Arthur is waiting for him.

“I will wake you before bedtime,” Gaius says, because he knows everything.

Merlin wants to go to Arthur very, very badly, but he acknowledges that he is in a state, and it wouldn’t do for Arthur to see him like this. He doesn’t reply, just walks forward, imagines that this is what being at sea must be like, enters his room and pulls the door shut behind him, feels bad for treating Gaius so coldly, goes to his bed and lies down. He swims in and out of sleep, pain ebbing and flowing through him. His waking thoughts blend with his dreams, until he can't tell the difference between them anymore.

He walks through the city, snow crunching under his boots, while the heavens spin like a great wheel above him. He leaves through the gates and stops on the great plain just outside the walls of Camelot. Kilgharra is waiting for him, a massive, hulking shape in the dark, his yellow eyes glimmering with inner light.

“This is the first time you have called on me this way, young Warlock. Your powers are growing.”

When he speaks, great clouds of steam rise from his mouth.

“I don’t care about Albion,” Merlin says. “I don’t care about any of it. Mordred lives.”

Kilgharrah cocks his head to the side. It makes Merlin dizzy to look up at him while the stars and spinning behind his spiky head.

“Are you surprised?”

“How do I keep him from Arthur?”

The dragon hums thoughtfully. “... It puzzles me as much as you, how this can be Arthur’s fate, so soon after he has ascended to the throne. Albion has not been united, and the children of magic are still persecuted in the world of men, so how come the Saxon horde, and the witch Morgana, lie in wait just on the other side of winter?”

Merlin bares his teeth. “Give me an answer!”

Kilgharrah’s tone turns sharp. “For once, young Warlock, I am not being obtuse, I simply have no answer to give you. You have, in the past, come close to changing destiny, but in the end, your choices have always led you back on the foretold path, and I did once warn you that letting the druid boy live would keep you from fulfilling your destiny.”

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT MY DESTINY!” He closes his eyes, but the stars are tumbling around inside his head now, making him feel sick. “I need to keep Arthur safe!”

“Merlin. This feat might simply not be in your power.”

Merlin’s blood runs cold. “No!” He hesitates, his heart and mind protesting the only path that seems open to him. “I will ... I will find him … I will kill Mordred.”

“... Perhaps. Perhaps it would even work. Or perhaps the attempt will be the very thing that turns him against Arthur once and for all.”

Helplessness strangles him, makes him hate, hate, hate. So angry.

“I am sorry, Merlin,” Kilgharrah says, sensing his distress. “I do not want this to happen any more than you do.”

“What do I do?” Merlin grits out.

The dragon is silent for a long time, his eyes lowered to the ground. Above them the stars grind to a halt.

“Go to Arthur. Give him your affection. Kiss him, lie with him. Arm and dress him for battle, fight beside him. Hold him until he passes, and then give him a funeral worthy of a King.”

Merlin wakes up howling in rage.


	28. Sleeping and waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We look back at the past week from Merlin's point of view to witness his first transformation from man to woman, while in the here and now, Merlin finally makes to Arthur's chambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the last chapter was supposed to end, but using two chapters worked out well because it gave me space for multiple themes.
> 
> Next chapter will be from Arthur's point of view again.

Gaius comes running, pushing through the door and hurrying to Merlin’s side.

“Merlin! Merlin, calm yourself.”

Merlin snarls, and he can _feel_ his own eyes swirling with gold.

“I WON’T LOSE HIM!”

Gaius flinches back, and for the first time, Merlin realises that his guardian is afraid of him.

The anger vanishes. He is left clutching two handfuls of blanket, upper body half-lifted from the bed and breath coming in deep gasps.

Gaius approaches him cautiously, puts his hands on Merlin’s shoulders and pushes him gently back down on the bed. “Dear boy,” he says only. They remain silent for a moment, listening to their own bodies breathing in the stillness. Then Gaius gets up and leaves the room, returning shortly with a small bottle.

“Drink this. It will help you sleep.”

It’s appropriate, Merlin thinks as he downs the clear liquid, that he should find himself in Morgana’s shoes. Appropriate in more ways than one. He could use a pair of Morgana’s shoes right now, actually. He’s been too worried about ruining his only pair of boots to try ... to ... try ...

Gaius’ face blurs, Merlin’s thoughts go fussy, and then he falls asleep again.

He dreams that he goes to Arthur, and that Arthur undresses him only to find a woman's body beneath his clothes.

Half waking, Merlin pushes at the blanket that smothers him, hands scrabbling to feel, to find, and he exhales in relief at the familiar tender shape of his balls, the weight in his palm that makes him male. Curling around himself protectively, he dozes.

He had transformed successfully for the first time only last night. Ironically, it was Arthur’s meddling that had made it possible. Up until then, Merlin had divided his time between helping Gaius, who really had too much work to do to handle it alone, and looking for a gender-changing spell. Merlin’s room had become a veritable library as he smuggled book after book out of Geoffrey’s collection, piling them on the table and stacking them up against the walls, but he never had time to read for long as Gaius was always in need of him. There were house-calls to make, medicines to deliver, more potions to brew, more herbs to stock, and worst of all, there was always someone knocking on the door to see the physician. It was the harshest winter in decades, and it was creating a line at the door to the sick room. In hindsight, Arthur’s solution seemed so obvious, but at the time both Gaius and Merlin had feared the addition of another pair of hands would only make it harder for them to hide their secret work, not to mention that if Gaius got the help he needed from elsewhere, Merlin would have no excuse not to go back and run after Arthur all day, in which case he would get nothing else done.

As the days blurred together and became many, Merlin was no longer able to unwind even in Arthur's bed. At first he had found a kind of mindless peace in choking himself breathless on Arthur thick cock, in the weight of Arthur on top of him, and in the white pleasure of orgasm, but as the fortnight given them became a week and then less, his sleep was increasingly interrupted by dreams of guilt, fear or failure, and he would wake in a sweat and hurry away to do more research, more preparations. He knows that it took its toll, not only on him but on Arthur too, who has no idea what is going on. Merlin is glad now that Arthur put his foot down.

Not just one, but two women had arrived to assist Gaius the morning after Arthur and Merlin’s row, and somehow they had been exactly what both he and Merlin needed. Under the pretence of running errands, Merlin could take his books and his clothes and his wildly circling thoughts away to an empty room where he had found peace, time, and the solution.

Transforming into a woman was something quite different than turning into an old man, and much, much more difficult. It was in his body’s nature to be the old man, because some day that old man would be him. It was a shift in time, and Merlin had been able to manipulate time ever since he hit puberty. Not to say that it wasn’t difficult, or took a toll on him, but over the years it had become easier to affect the change, as well as to sustain it over longer periods. He had lasted for several days when he was bringing Enid and Leena to Essetir, though by the time he had arrived back in Camelot and turned back into himself, he had been in quite a bit of pain, and so exhausted he had slept straight through the day until morning.

This new feat was not simply about shifting his body in time, he had to invert nature, and nature was not forgiving about these kind of things; it required sacrifices. The few books Merlin and Gaius had found that spoke of the possibility strongly cautioned against even trying; it took too much of a toll on the body, there were too many hazards involved in the transformation itself, it required immense power. Gaius had assured Merlin that these books were not written with sorcerers like him in mind, but Merlin had seen the lines of worry on the old man’s brow.

They had put the spell together at night, in the empty room Merlin had appropriated. As Merlin raised the potion to his lips, student and teacher had looked at each other, silently acknowledging this last moment before they were either saved, or doomed. If the spell did not work, they would not be ready in time for the fourteenth day.

The potion had tasted surprisingly good; a dark, strange, addicting taste, but as it had run down his throat it had become cloying: too rich, too strong. Nervous, but determined, Merlin had spoken the words that would change him.

_“Gyden áhelle mec beneoðan basinges þín. Iewe þæt dierne þæs flæsces þín, Þætte ic onþéowe ðu.”_ And as the ancient powers roared in him he had added his own little plea. _“Þætte ic onþéowe him.”_

He had closed his eyes and thought of Arthur, who inspired him to move mountains, who made magic rise and rush in him. And there had been a rush, so powerful he had gone dizzy, couldn’t feel himself, couldn’t open his eyes. When it had settled, he had looked at Gaius, who had been gaping at him.

“Did it-” The question had been startled into silence when he heard his own voice. “It worked,” he had said, touching his throat where his prominent apple has became nothing at all. His voice was lighter, though still rounded with the weight his deep male voice had. He had looked at his hands and found them delicate, his long fingers gone even slenderer.

“Merlin.” Gaius had sounded awe-struck.

“Is it good enough?” Merlin had asked, looking around although he knew there was no looking-glass there. “Will he recognise me?”

Gaius had recovered, and studied Merlin more critically while Merlin touched his face, his hair, his ears, trying to discover all the differences.

“It might help once you put on other clothes, but I would say it is enough. The change is extraordinary, Merlin. Though as always there is something of you in the eyes.”

Merlin had bitten his lower lip in frustration to discover that his recognisable ears were still sticking out, though his hair at least was longer, his cheeks gone soft, his jaw rounder. Worst of all had been his unchanged height, which he had hoped would diminish a little; not many women were as tall as this, as tall as Arthur, who might take notice.

“How do you feel?” Gaius had asked, coming around the bowl to touch Merlin’s forehead and look into his eyes. “Tired or dizzy? Any pain?”

Merlin had shaken his head. “I got dizzy when I changed, but it’s gone now.” He had realised he had better try some magic, to see if he could cast while maintaining this form. He had reached out a hand towards a chair and commands it to come to him. It had only wobbled.

“I need more practice.”

“We still have a few days left, though we also need to get clothes for you. You’re meeting the King, you know; got to look presentable.”

Merlin had laughed, and been startled again by the sound, which prompted both him and Gaius to laugh more.

Gaius potion mutes Merlin’s confused dreams, and when he wakes he feels better. Things are clearer, his need to see Arthur more urgent. How many women has his King danced with now? But it will not be any of them in his bed. Only Merlin has that privilege.

Gaius does not ask if Merlin feels better, but gives him a potion for hangovers.

“You’d best take some to Arthur as well.” Though it is late, the old man has not gone to bed.

The shape under the white sheet is covered in shadows, the candles around it gone out. The body reminds Merlin of the effigies in the tunnel below the castle. Sleeping Kings hewn in stone. Merlin shudders and looks away.

Gaius is puttering around with his potions. “The feast should be well over by now. You will have to tell Arthur what has happened, and give him my excuses. You will not find him alone quite yet, I suspect.”

“I’m not leaving you here alone,” Merlin says, more to have said the words than because he means them.

Gaius smiles like he knows. “I have kept vigil with the dead before, Merlin. It hardly frightens me. If it makes you feel better I will sleep in your room tonight. Now go on. The King will be expecting you.”

And those are the magic words.

The halls are still lit with torches, but largely empty. The few people Merlin meets are drunk. He walks fast so as not to have to talk to anyone. There are guards stationed here and there, some of them asleep against the wall, others sitting two and two and sharing a bottle between them. They greet Merlin with toasts, he nods in return and hurries on.

But outside the door to Arthur’s chambers, he lingers. He hopes Arthur is alone. It isn't likely, but he makes it a wish and holds on to it, hopes that he won't have to explain, won't have to be seen by anyone other than Arthur, that they can just go to bed and hold each other.

He takes a deep breath and expels it slowly without feeling any less clenched up and aching inside. Then he knocks.

There is no answer. Now that he's aware, it's much too silent in there compared to what he was expecting. Gwaine should have been pretty loud by now, anyway. Guinevere should be laughing, Leon and Percival singing. Maybe it's because Princess Elena is with them? But he can't hear them talking at all.

Merlin tries the handle. The door opens. He slips through.

Arthur's chambers are empty. There are goblets and bowls of fruit on the table, evidence of a party abandoned, but no people. No Arthur passed out in bed, no George picking up the dirty dishes. No scarf or glove left behind in drunken carelessness. And yet the candles have not burned low.

Merlin considers going to find them, but in truth he is relieved. Whatever merriment they have pursued, if they return perhaps they'll let him lie if he just ... He is half-way into Arthur's bed before realising that just because everybody knows that they are shagging does not mean that he can be found openly sleeping in the King's bed. For a long moment, Merlin buries his face in Arthur's pillow, the one on the left side, breathing in the smell of him. It fills his senses with the most powerful desire, affection rushing in him, fierce love making him dizzy. Arthur. Stupid, brave, good Arthur.

Merlin takes the pillow with him to the hearthrug and lies down there. No one will mind that. A dog curled up on his master's rug, impudently gnawing on the corner of a pillow. He can pretend to be drunk and it will make them laugh, but Arthur will be able to tell, and he will look at Merlin with dark, lustful eyes.

The fire is burning low, so he stokes it, feeding it generously with wood and magic until it is blazing.

A sprig of holly has been hung over the hearth. Oh. It's Christmas. He'd forgotten somehow. The feast seems so far away, like it happened last year. He is still wearing Arthur's present to him, the grey shirt that feels like silk against his skin, and the pants that are almost a little loose on him, but sturdier than anything else he owns. He doesn't have any present for Arthur. He is going to have to think of something in the morning. Heat curls in his gut for a moment as he considers what he knows he will be giving Arthur in the morning.

To be one. When they are, it will take destiny more power than it has to get to Arthur, because Merlin will surround him with himself and hold on tight. The horses will have to trample him too if they mean to do Arthur harm. Kilgharrah was wrong. Arthur and Merlin will never be separated. He must believe this, or he will go mad, useless with fear. He must believe.

Merlin falls asleep with the fire burning against his back, the memory of Sam's fading heartbeat fluttering against in palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spell: “Goddess hide me beneath your cloak. Reveal the mystery of your flesh to me, that I may serve you.” Merlin adds: “That I may serve him.”


	29. Shattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur runs away from the shattering of his life.

It is snowing, fat flakes drifting down from a clouded sky too dark to make out. Arthur stands at the mouth of the square with his arms crossed tightly across his chest and his shoulders hunched against the burning cold, limbs already gone stiff on the short walk down from the castle. His breath rises in gushes of mist before his face.

The square lies silent and empty. A few windows are lit in the guard tower above, but it only serves to leave the open space below in deeper darkness. Arthur peers into the black like he can look through it into the past, see Morris heft the wooden target and scurry back and forth on his young legs. Slowly, Arthur walks towards the place where he thinks he himself was standing on that day, surrounded by cronies whose names he can barely remember now. They had disappeared quickly once Arthur had stopped trying to please them. Morris had disappeared quickly too. He had been eclipsed, overshadowed by a boy who seemed to have dropped from the moon, so foreign were his white cheeks, the challenge in his eyes, the delight in his smile. The boy had starlight in him, and unfit for Earthly life he had frequently found himself tumbling head over feet, as if his body was trying to return to the heavens from whence it had come.

Arthur turns around hesitantly, gripped by violent shivers, and looks to the road.

_“You called me friend.”_

_“That was my mistake.”_

Arthur is shaking so hard it hurts, clenching his teeth to keep them from rattling right out of his skull. What did he come here for? Was he hoping to return to that day, to recapture the Arthur he used to be, as if it would somehow make what he must do next easier? If he can return to a time before he knew Merlin, then it will be nothing to him to march back up to the castle and round up the guards from their drunken revelry, hunt down the sorcerer and, at sword point, command his surrender. Command his exec-

“You there! What’re ye doing out this time o’night? Gonna catch yer death.” A lantern dangles from the hand of a man who comes hobbling up from the lower town, the light spilling across the snow, coming closer. Arthur wants to run, but it’s like his limbs have locked, cramping when he tries to untangle himself and move. Then the light falls on his face and it’s too late.

The man gasps. “Yer Majesty.” He bows low, the ears on his cap dangling. He’s rotund, with a potato-shaped nose and pockmarked skin. “What are ye doing out here in the cold, Sire, and in naught but yer finery? Not that it’s any o’ my business.”

Arthur would speak, but it seems his jaws have locked too. He stares helplessly at the man, shaking and shaking and shaking.

The man seems to realise that Arthur has frozen solid. He jumps to. “Come along, Sire. Best get you indoors. The Rising Sun will have a good fire and a hot mug for you, you’ll see.”

He puts an arm around Arthur’s shoulders and pulls him along, back through the gate.

When did his subjects become so free with their hands, Arthur wonders as he is guided towards the tavern, his rescuer chatting away, oblivious to Arthur’s inattentiveness. When did they become so free with their words? Had it been Arthur’s father back there, the man would have been bowing and scraping still. Not that Arthur’s father would ever have been caught out in the cold like this, running madly from the shattering of his life.

… Or could he have been? Had he run into the void just like Arthur, refusing to face the loss of the woman he loved? Had he run all his life?

Friendly torches flank the door to The Rising Sun. The man lets go of Arthur to push the door open, before helping the King over the threshold like an invalid. Heat, and the scent of smoke, food and ale hits him like a punch, while noise fills up his ears, so that for a moment he is utterly disorientated.

“Oi! Shut the door!”

The cold gives Arthur’s neck one last lick of farewell before it is shut out. Now the chill is all inside him.

Most of the patrons tonight are men, single most likely, but there are women and even families among them too. There is food on the tables, simple fare compared to the feast Arthur is coming from, but fine for these people. His people. They stare and stare at him, uncomprehendingly.

“What’s this?” shouts one of the drunker guests in the back. “Whosit you’ve brought, Hal? Hey, Evoric, look who’s come to wish you Merry Christmas!” The noise level rises through the roof as the patrons finally recognise Arthur.

Evoric comes running from the behind the bar, bowing almost as he goes. “My lord! What a pleasure! What brings you to my tavern?”

Hal claps a hand on Arthur’s shoulder again and steers him towards the fireplace. “Found His Majesty wandering around by hisself in the snow. Lad’s all chilled through. Get him a blanket and a mug, will you Evoric?”

He pushes Arthur down on a stool by the fire and Arthur is really going to have to address his subjects’ blatant lack of fear and awe of their King.

A moth-eaten blanket is hung around his shoulders and a mug of cider is placed in his hands. Arthur’s body is seizing up, expelling the cold with every breath, returning life and feeling to his limbs, thawing out his heart. He wants the cold back. Wants it to take his insides until he knows nothing. No starlight, no duty, no traitorous, beautiful moonboy.

“Think maybe he’s had too much?” Evoric mumbles to Hal.

“Nah. Seems steady enough on his feet. A little out of it though. Summat happened to upset him maybe?” There is a pause. “Well, my lady is waiting for me. I’ll leave His Majesty in your care, Evoric.”

“Tell Molly Merry Christmas from me.”

“I will. I’ll have a strange story to tell her. Like as not she won’t believe me.”

When Hal leaves, cold air blasts in from outside.

“Oi! Shut the door!”

Evoric sits down next to Arthur. Arthur stares into the fire.

“You wouldn’t happen to know how Sam’s doing, would you, my lord?”

Arthur lifts his head, looks at Evoric properly for the first time. “Gaius is with him.”

Evoric nods. “Poor man. Gave us a fright when he suddenly collapsed, whole body shaking like a fish on land. Some of the boys got him up to the castle.” He smiles tightly. “Gaius’ll look after him, though. No one knows their cures like Gaius.”

Arthur opens his mouth to say … something. Gaius doesn’t know what is wrong with Sam. There is no cure, Merlin has told him so. Merlin might know something else though. Something forbidden and secret.

“We thought he was improving,” Evoric says, looking away. “Guess it had mostly to do with him picking himself up and coming off the drink. It helped a great deal, what your Merlin did for him.”

Arthur’s stomach does a curious lurch.

“Speaking of,” Evoric says and this is exactly like after Ismere; Arthur knows what’s coming and he dreads it and he doesn’t understand why they all seem to think he and Merlin are somehow a single person and that if they’re not attached at the hip then something has to be wrong even if that’s been mostly true for the past few years.

“Does Merlin know you’re out here all alone?”

“I’m the King,” Arthur says with careful enunciation, because no one seems to remember that around here. “I don’t answer to anyone.” He takes a sip of cider and it burns his tongue.

Evoric nods. He probably thinks Arthur is drunk after all, and that’s fine. “Of course, of course, Your Majesty, but you know, even a mighty man needs someone to take care of him, and we’re all glad to know you’ve got someone, seeing as there isn’t any lady in your life yet.”

Arthur is caught somewhere between wanting to cry and wanting to laugh. He looks closely at Evoric but can’t tell whether the man is trying to communicate something to him or not. There doesn’t seem to be anything hidden in his face, just the dirt and sweat of honest work and an open, slightly dull expression.

Do his people really trust so little in Arthur’s own strength?

“I am … well taken care of.”

Which is somehow true, though Merlin never really became the kind of manservant a king should have. At least it was never dull. Merlin took to his chores the way he took to orders; he either performed perfectly or terribly, and Arthur had never really found out what caused it go one way or another. Except ... Except for Arthur’s armour and sword. They were always in perfect condition. Merlin even complained sometimes when Arthur wanted him to put other duties before cleaning his hauberk or mending his gambeson.

“That’s good to hear. We were a little worried for a while, you know with Merlin apprenticing for Gaius and all. Got a good head, Merlin, like I said, but he wasn’t happy about leaving you, that was plain to see. Not that he complained; he’s good at hiding his own hurt most of the time, but some feelings are too big to tuck away, and he’s a mighty one for feelings.”

Arthur is beginning to wonder about Evoric. “How do you know him so well?” he asks, before remembering. He scoffs. “Forget it; I suppose Merlin’s been in here often enough. He loves your ale more than he loves his job.”

Evoric looks confused. “Forgive me, Sire, but I don’t follow you now. I know Merlin well enough, it’s true, but everybody knows Merlin, and not because he’s often on the barrel. He drinks with the knights sometimes, but he’s usually the first one to go.” He chuckles. “And the one who comes back in the morning to wake up Sir Gwaine.” He startles as he realises what he has said. “Meaning no trouble for Sir Gwaine, Sire.”

Arthur struggles to gather moisture enough to swallow. “So ... Merlin does not often stay for days at the time, then?” He tries to sound casual but it comes out like he is being strangled.

Evoric frowns. “I haven’t ever known him to do that, Sire, and I’m not saying that to keep him out of trouble either; Merlin doesn’t need anyone for that.”

It’s a good joke, and Arthur would laugh, but he is busy wondering about the man he hardly seems to know. Merlin, who takes care of him, who spills wine on him and scares away the game, but who keeps Arthur’s sword sharp at all times. Merlin, who lies.

Arthur pities the boy he used to be, who sought approval anywhere he could find it, unaware that what he really needed was a friend, someone to care about him. Until a moonchild appeared and told him that enough was enough. Merlin was the one who told him the truth when no one else did.

Merlin is the biggest liar Arthur has ever loved, and he has loved a fair share.

“Your Majesty?” Evoric looks concerned. “Is something wrong, my lord?”

“No. I’m just a little drunk.”

“Best get you home then,” Evoric says, and seems about to clap Arthur on the shoulder before he remembers himself. Apparently he has some sense of propriety. “I’ll send a man for an escort.”

“No.” Arthur stands. “I’ll go myself.” He takes off the blanket and hands it and the mug back to Evoric. “They wouldn’t be any steadier on their feet anyway.”

He walks away, but as he gets to the door there’s a chorus and cries that makes him turn. They have raised their tankards to him, every single one of them, even Evoric with the mug of cider.

“Here’s to the King!” the drunken patron in the back shouts. “Merry Christmas, Sire.”

The others echo him, some solemnly, some joyously.

Arthur yanks the door open, takes the gust of cold like a hammer blow, and flees. Moisture prickles in the corners of his eyes, like it will turn to ice if he stays out here much longer. It is snowing much more heavily now. He wraps his arms around himself again and makes himself walk back to the castle.

By the time he reaches the courtyard, a layer of snow has settled on his shoulders and in his hair. He stops before the stairs.

_‘Can’t do it.’_

_‘Round up the guards, hunt down the sorcerer, demand his surrender, order the ... order his exec-’_

Against Arthur’s will his eyes are dragged to the façade of the citadel that looms above him. A great white beast it seems to him now, full of glaring red eyes, and this beast he must reign, while it snarls and bucks under him.

At the bottom of the stairs the statue of Prince Aurelius towers, his visor open that his fierce eyes may remind any traitor of Camelot what fate awaits them. He sits upright in the saddle, lance held erect, and beneath him his horse stands rigid. “Like the law of Camelot,” Father would say.

Arthur is haunted. He sees Merlin crouched between the legs of the horse, bent with laughter as Arthur’s snowball goes wide, missing by a mile. Must Merlin be trampled under the feet of Camelot’s law?

His spine is seized by a fierce chill, but he bends in on himself, refuses to obey the urge to turn around and look to where the platform would be built, where the wood would be heaped high, as it has not been for years. Would the fire melt the snow in the courtyard?

Oh God he can hear Merlin screaming.

Arthur gasps as he remembers where the scream is from, the memory that his mind decided to dredge up to torment him. It was a cry of pain. A bloodcurdling cry uttered as Mordred’s phantom blade pierced Arthur’s stomach.

Arthur runs up the stairs, heedless of the icy stone, blinded by his own breath rising before his face in great clouds. He mustn’t be too late. Stars above, let him not be too late. It will not be. It will not! Oh how Merlin had screamed, like his world was ending, like it was his own abdomen stabbed through with cold steel, and how desperately he had thrown himself into Arthur’s arms after, holding him so hard Arthur could barely breathe, Merlin’s sobs loud and unhinged even buried in Arthur’s shoulder.

Not even moonboys can lie so well.

He is about to yank open the door to his chambers, but something stops him. He is trembling. It’s quiet in there. He stands with his hand on the doorknob, shaking with the effort it takes to wait, to let his breath even out. Only then does he let the door swing open.

His chambers are abandoned. Almost.

Merlin lies curled up on the hearthrug, arms around a pillow. The dichotomy of his being is right there; the fairy prince in his silver shirt, features cut from marble, lashes long like a woman’s, sleeping on the dirty rug like a dog. The most powerful man in Albion lies clutching a pillow like a child seeking comfort from a nightmare.

The fire in the hearth is built too high, and it flares as it catches a draft from the door, the light flickering over Merlin’s drawn face and curled fingers. Arthur seeks the floor, goes down on hands and knees to keep himself from running over and yanking Merlin away from the imaginary threat.

Standing there, savagely biting his lip to stave off the panic throbbing in his stomach, he is reminded of another day, this one years back and in a different season. A day of fire. He wants to vomit. It’s too much; he suddenly feels so small, so ashamed and embarrassed. Everything hurts: every muscle in his body and every corner of his heart. The most powerful man in Albion has been playing the fool while Arthur strutted around like he was somehow consequential. Like he could slay dragons. It was laughable.

Arthur wonders if Merlin laughed to himself when Arthur recounted his victory to Uther.

Looking at the minute frown marring Merlin’s sleeping face, Arthur has never felt so full of rage, or so full of fear, and he has never loved anyone so much. It must be a spell, an enchantment placed upon him: it cannot be natural to feel so deeply, to have such an overwhelming need for someone else, even when they have been crueler to you than anyone has ever been.

Arthur swallows the sounds that want to claw their way out of his throat. He crawls backwards, pushes himself away, uses the wall to support himself as he staggers up and out the door again, closing it behind him. He breathes, struggles to find some sort of strength in himself.

The others must have gone somewhere else; Merlin sleeping cannot be the result of a confrontation. Arthur has to find them.

Guinevere’s chambers seem the likeliest choice, being the largest and most private after Arthur’s. He does not hesitate this time, or he would be stuck outside her door forever, and when he enters there they are, seated all around on chairs and windowsills and the bed. They look up when he enters, silence falling between them. George stands up, ever ready, despite the nasty black eye he is sporting.

Arthur’s rabbit heart runs and runs, but the rest of him is frozen solid.

“I can’t-” He tries to draw breath. It won’t take. “I can’t breathe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I'm sorry, were you waiting for a confrontation? Nope. Not yet. *is evil*
> 
> I hope Arthur's mood-shifts weren't too jarring. I imagined he would be somewhat at war within himself, especially as he gradually realised the extent of Merlin's deception.
> 
> I randomly decided the statue of the knight should be Aurelius. Because it was cool.


	30. Remade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taliessa's eyes swim into focus, burning gold like a beast's.

Arthur's back is against the door, vision gone narrow. His chest grows tighter every second while his skull feels like it's about to burst. Air whistles uselessly in his throat.

Then a cool palm spans his forehead and another closes around his windpipe, and Taliessa's eyes swim into focus, burning gold like a beast's.

_"Leoðuwæce. Gebregdan."_

The spells sweep through him, opening his lungs, clearing his head, and he inhales gratefully even as Taliessa is dragged away with two daggers at her throat.

"Stop!" Tom cries, jumping to his feet. "There is no need for this."

Arthur is still bent over and regaining his breath, but holds up a hand, and Gwaine and Leon freeze in position, their eyes locked on his, awaiting his orders. Their blades are dull against Taliessa's straining throat. Princess Elena comes to Arthur, checking him over, her touch on his shoulder quietly supporting. Gwen, strangely, has only risen, and stands indecisively by her bed, seemingly unaware of her brother holding her hand.

"My lord," Tom says insistently. "Please let her go. She meant no harm."

Taliessa on the other hand feels no need to beg. "I suppose I could have let you die, gasping like a fish on land," she says scornfully.

Arthur straightens up. More than anything he dislikes that she so completely disregards him. Had she feared or respected him, she would have hesitated to reveal herself as a sorceress after what has already come to light tonight. But he waves his hand to make his men release her. They step back reluctantly, Gwaine scowling, and though they sheath their knives, they do not sit back down. Only Elyan and Percival are still sitting, and the room is crowded. They look to Arthur.

"Perhaps you _should_ have let me die," Arthur says eventually.

Taliessa rubs her sore throat, cocks her head and looks at him curiously.

He feels the world slipping between his fingers, everything he was disappearing like mist, the faces of his loved ones turning into masks and falling away. "I am king of a dream. What a jester I must seem to you and your kind."

"Sire," Leon protests, echoed by similar sounds from the others. Arthur ignores them all.

"Merlin sleeps on the rug in my chambers. He is a slayer of monsters, and he has led me like a docile ass to the throne."

"No!" Gwen says fiercely.

Arthur raises his voice. "My parents had me created by the priestesses of old, and my father thought he could use me as a weapon against them. More fool he, and he raised a fool in turn."

"Stop it!"

"I have ruled blindfolded," he shouts, drowning out the others as they try to reassure him. "I burned sorcerers by day, while at night I entertained their king in my bed!"

They go silent like candle flames snuffing out.

Then Guinevere claps a hand over her mouth to smother a sob, eyes squeezing shut.

It's not like they didn't all know already.

"You're wrong."

Arthur has completely forgotten George, with his swollen black eye from Arthur's mindless fist. The boy still clutches the golden dragon pendant in his hand, the one they fought over, Arthur seeking to throw it in the fire, George struggling to save it.

George does not look like he realises what he has said, that he has thrown words in the face of a king, and that it could cost him a whipping. He shakes. Tears stand in his eyes. "You're wrong!" he says again. "Merlin is loyal to you. Merlin would never betray you."

"He already has," Arthur says quietly. He turns back to Taliessa. "So like I said, you could have saved yourself the trouble." 

Taliessa shakes her head. "I would not have let you die. I have searched for you for far too long." With her greying hair framing her face like a lion's mane, she doesn't need magic to look beastly. "You are the dragon of the prophecies, the one destined to unite this island and bring us peace at last. For years I have travelled the length and breadth of Albion, repeating my verses at court after court, inn after inn, looking each king, each knight and farmer in the eye to find the man who roared in my dreams. It is you. Chosen by Emrys, bearing the name Pendragon, strong enough to shoulder the task ahead. I have no doubt that it is you."

Despite having wondered about it at the feast, Arthur is still surprised at Taliessa's words. He had thought she might simply be flattering him by including a dragon in her verse, but ... prophecy? Destiny?

"You're a prophet too?" Princess Elena asks, sounding more awed than accusatory.

Taliessa inclines her head.

"Tally, this is not the time," Tom says restlessly.

"This is the only time we have," she says sternly. "Already the Saxons amass on our shores. By summer's end we shall be overrun." Her eyes blaze, not with magic but with fervour, pulling Arthur in. "I am neither druid nor sorceress, though I know my tricks; I do not know what you and Emrys are to each other, or what he plans for you, but I do not believe you are a puppet king. I have seen too much prosperity and happiness in Camelot, and everywhere the people bless your name. Whatever the case, it is time for you to lift your sight to the rest of Albion. You are needed."

Arthur just stares at her. He can't connect to this. His head is clamouring with thoughts, his body empty and aching. Uniting Albion ... Fighting the Saxons ... He has no room for that right now. Can't think beyond tonight. Wants to hide.

He startles when Guinevere takes his hand in hers. Her touch is shy. Arthur sees her eyes are wet, so he looks down at their joined hands to spare her.

"Forget all that," she says, as if she can read his thoughts. "Forget it for now. Think only of Merlin. You say he has betrayed you, manipulated you." Her breath stutters, but she forges on. "I say only two things could drive a man to live a lie year after year, knowing his life would be lost if he were ever discovered. He must either be ruthlessly ambitious, or a besotted fool." She takes Arthur's chin in hand and makes him look at her. "Now look me in the eye and tell me Merlin is an ambitious man, hungry for power and glory."

He looks at her, and she looks sorrowful, but she smiles through it, and he feels something ease inside him. She never speaks without weight, because she never speaks without thinking, and she has no desire beyond the truth. He leans his forehead against hers and closes his eyes. Her relieved exhale tells him she needs no other answer.

He gives himself a moment, and then one last time he turns back to Taliessa. "It appears we have much to discuss. If you will let me decide, I know now what I want to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for an explanation. The unplanned hiatus happened for several reasons, including thesis fatigue, the sudden loss of two grandparents, and a chapter that was never good enough no matter how many times I wrote and rewrote and reshaped it. The biggest problem unfortunately has to do with Merlin BBC having been over for so long. I need to watch the show again and get the spark of inspiration back. But finally, something shook lose, and so here is the continuation.
> 
> Please let me know if something is unsatisfactory! I have written myself blind to this chapter.
> 
> Next time, Arthur goes back to Merlin.


	31. Love made in the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening of this chapter contains SYMBOLISM. Now you know.

Merlin opens his eyes and is quickly squinting against the stinging heat of the hearth. The embers smoulder, occasionally sparking, their orange glow casting shadows into the depths of the chimney. Merlin's throat is sore from inhaling smoke, and he feels over-warm and sweaty. He slowly unwinds his arms from around the pillow and shifts his stiff, aching body.

Arthur is sitting on the rug by Merlin's head, his arms around his drawn up knees. He's wearing his finery still.

"Arthur?" Merlin croaks, pushing himself up on his elbows.

Arthur glances down at him. "You've been asleep for a long time," he says.

"Have I?" Merlin sits up, crosses his legs and looks at Arthur curiously.

Arthur nods. "But dawn is still some hours off."

It's dark outside. Merlin's head aches from too many dreams. "M'not sure I wanna sleep any more." He drags the wispy sleeve of his shirt over his damp forehead and eyelids.

"Me too," Arthur says. "I feel more awake than I've felt for a long time." He sounds strange. Distant. And he looks tired.

"Are you drunk?" Merlin asks.

Arthur looks at him in surprise, then snorts. "I don't think so. Do I seem drunk?"

Merlin considers him. Arthur's eyes appear clear enough. "Not really. A little queer, though."

"Only a little?" Arthur leans his head on his folded arms, smiling. "I'd have thought we had passed into solidly queer territory by now."

Merlin rolls his eyes. "Are we telling jokes now?" He gets up to get some water for his parched throat, and as he puts the goblet down, Arthur comes up behind him, takes Merlin's shoulders in his hands and leans his forehead against Merlin's hair.

"Come to bed," Arthur says. "We don't have to sleep."

Merlin leans into his lover's strength, eyes closing contentedly. "What else would we do? Arthur."

Arthur remains silent for a long time. His whispered answer has no jest left in it.

"I would like to lie next to you. Feel you beside me."

"Anything you want."

Merlin turns around and puts his hands to Arthur's laces. Years ago he would have fumbled and tugged and cursed at sleeves and buckles and embroidery while Arthur's brow grew steadily stormier. Tonight, the King's clothes seem almost to fall away on their own, as if they understand the need their master's boy has of the body they hide.

Arthur stands obediently still while Merlin bares him, and then he waits while Merlin fetches a nightgown. He does not ask for his sleeping hose, nor why Merlin discarded his smalls with his trousers. He lets himself be led, docile.

Merlin takes less care with himself, but folds his fine, new clothes before putting them away. After slipping into an old shirt of Arthur's, he slides under the covers held open for him.

Then they are in each other's arms.

Between the moonlight and the glow of the hearth, they can just make each other out. Merlin leans over Arthur and fits a hand to his cheek. His heart hurts, both from joy of what he has, and from fear of losing it.

"I want to be mad at you," he says. "You're a proper ass, leaving here and not telling me where you'd gone. But I'm not mad. Your speech tonight, at the feast, Arthur it was ..."

Arthur reaches up and pinches Merlin's ear. "Don't start crying on me now."

Merlin sniffs, mouth twisting. "I was gonna say it was so good I thought Gwen must have written it for you."

That earns his ear another pinch, before Arthur pulls Merlin down to him. They breathe the same air for a moment, noses brushing, eyes seeking each other through the barrier of half-light. Then Merlin closes the distance and they kiss. Softly, lips barely touching, withdrawing only for the pleasure of meeting again, an open-mouthed cling that leaves them breathing hard, a lip caught by two and sucked, the corner of a mouth kissed like the imparting of a secret.

 _'I am kissing Arthur.'_ Merlin thinks. _'My Arthur.'_ He remembers their first meeting in the square above the lower town. To think that brash, swaggering fair-haired youth is the same as the man whose strong arms are turning Merlin over on his back in this moment.

They kiss until they are sore and breathless, and then rest close, close, Arthur's lips against Merlin's cheek. Merlin feels Arthur's heat and knows he is aroused, he needs only to shift his hips a little to confirm it.

"Will you ...?" Merlin asks.

"I will." Only Arthur's nightgown keeps skin from skin and Merlin can feel Arthur's hard length against his thigh.

Merlin rolls over on his stomach and kicks the covers down, raising his backside so his shirt slides down his back. Arthur gets up and returns with a flask of oil Merlin has not seen before. A sudden thought has him groaning in mortification. "Tell me you bought that yourself. Tell me it isn't a present from George."

"What can I say," Arthur answers as he settles between Merlin's spread legs. "He really is the finest manservant in the five kingdoms."

"I'm going to kill him," Merlin says into the pillow, even as the sound of the stopper popping out of the bottleneck sends a shiver of anticipation down his back.

There is a pause, and when Merlin peers over his shoulder, Arthur is looking at him with awe.

"Look at you," Arthur says, sounding a little disbelieving. "Arse in the air, just for me." He looks distant again, almost ... distraught? It's too dark to see properly, the moon having disappeared behind a cloud.

Merlin wiggles his bottom. " _Cold_ arse in the air. So if His Majesty could get on with it ..." It's mostly bravado. He feels oddly nervous; he has taken himself many times before, using a wooden phallus and a bit of magic to make it move on its own, but he has never been with another man. His first time with Arthur should not have been as significant as its many delays have made it, but here they are and it is important, and Arthur seems to think so too if his hesitance is anything to go by.

The touch of Arthur's fingers, slick with oil, is soothing and familiar. Arthur takes his time, waiting until Merlin accepts the first finger without resistance before adding another, and another. Merlin lies flat on the bed and rubs his cock lazily against the sheets, pleasantly aroused and content to delay the big moment, anticipation fluttering in his stomach.

Eventually, Arthur takes himself in hand, slicking his cock and nudging the head against Merlin's taint, rubbing there until Merlin squirms, legs spreading further.

"I'm ready," Merlin says, and Arthur makes a confirming noise, withdrawing his fingers.

"I want you above me," Arthur says, his voice gone quiet and deep.

Merlin swallows, goes up on all four and waits for Arthur to lie back against the mound of pillows. He straddles his lover's lap, sits up on his toes and supports himself with one hand on Arthur's shoulder while the other grips Arthur's cock.

They look at each other, suspending the moment. Merlin can just see the outline of Arthur's face, a glint of his eyes, but not make out his expression.

"Go on," Arthur mumbles.

Merlin lowers himself, bears down and pushes past the initial resistance. Both men groan as the head of Arthur's cock breaches Merlin's hole and then slides in, the slow, relentless coming together torturous for both of them. Merlin throws his head back, unable to breathe as Arthur fills him beyond his limit. His own explorations have not prepared him for the intimacy of a flesh and blood cock, the throb of it, the way it both yields and resists the clench of Merlin's hole.

When Merlin's bottom touches Arthur's thighs, they are both trembling like colts after a race. Merlin sweats, slick behind his bent knees and under his arms. A drop runs down his back from his hairline.

"You give generous gifts, my lord," Merlin says, a little strained for breath.

Arthur just nods quickly, unable to speak. His short nails are digging into Merlin's thighs.

It takes a few moments before Merlin can relax enough to think of moving. Arthur fills him like he was made especially for the task. He leans back, supports himself with one hand on Arthur's knee, and begins to swivel his hips in a way that makes Arthur bare his teeth and moan. Merlin's eyelids flutter as he finds the right angle, finds a way to make Arthur's cock rub against the best place inside him. He tries a series of fast, shallow thrusts and is rewarded with sharply mounting pleasure and an oath from Arthur.

His own cock bobs, neglected, between his legs, but he wants to concentrate on this new sensation, the delicious drag of Arthur's smooth cock against his sensitive insides and the frustrated, pleasurable ache as his muscles clench uselessly around the intruder.

Arthur can't seem to settle down; he runs his hands up and down the inside of Merlin's thighs one moment, then down to cup his balls or stroke his buttocks the next, or out to spread his knees further. When Merlin falls into a slow ride, pulling almost all the way off and sinking down again in long, fluid motions, Arthur lifts his hips to meet him. He buries his fingers in the straight, dark hairs around Merlin's groin, and reaches up with his other hand to scratch down his stomach.

They breathe like bellows, embers pop sharply in the hearth, and Arthur's cock makes obscene, wet sounds sliding in and out of Merlin's hole. In daylight, Merlin would have been ashamed, but in the dark it only makes him hornier. He uses both hands to hold himself steady and lets his hips do the work. It feels so good, and better with every passing moment, better with every one of Arthur's teasing, distracted caresses.

"Not gonna last," Merlin warns.

Arthur doesn't answer, but he takes Merlin's cock in a loose grip, letting Merlin push himself in and out of Arthur's fist by the motion of his hips. Merlin speeds up a little, makes his movements shallow again, bites his bottom lip and feels his climax build in the pit of his stomach. At the last moment he grabs Arthur's wrist and pulls his hand off, before pinching himself at the base.

"Not yet. You first."

"Faster," Arthur says, and Merlin obliges. He wishes he could see better, would have liked to see Arthur's eyes cross when he comes, but it is enough to feel the tremor growing in his hips and feel the coiled, barely contained power of him between Merlin's legs.

Suddenly, Arthur surges up, wrapping one arm around Merlin's waist, bracing himself on the mattress and thrusting hard; six short, strong thrusts and then he falls back down with a shaky, wounded sound, dragging Merlin with him to hold him fast while his cock throbs and spurts. It is shockingly intimate, knowing Arthur is filling him with spend. Merlin rubs his rigid, slick cock against Arthur's soft stomach, and crests with a sharp inhale. They tremble against each other, riding the waves until it's over. Arthur slips out and helps Merlin fall off him to the side, to lie panting and sweaty on top of the covers.

"That was ..." Merlin says.

"Yes," Arthur replies hoarsely.

"It reminded me of ..."

"Yeah."

Merlin wonders if Arthur did it deliberately, putting Merlin in his lap again, like in Ismere. Like he's still trying to exorcise that ghost. "Third time's the charm, right?" he whispers.

Arthur's voice comes to him out of the darkness. "Tell me something about yourself. Something you haven't told anyone else."

Merlin stops, confused. Though Arthur lies only a hand's breadth away, Merlin cannot see him, cannot read him.

"Like what?" he finally asks.

Arthur breathes quietly, in and out. "Anything. A secret. I want to know."

"There's nothing ..." Merlin says. "I'm not that interesting."

Arthur huffs, unsatisfied.

Merlin racks his brain, but the big secret stands in the way of any little ones he might have. In the end, he chooses quickly and poorly.

"I loved a girl once. She was very sad, and all alone in the world. I tried to help her. She gave me my first kiss. She was beautiful, like an autumn day, and her smile was sharp like a cat's. I felt akin to her, like we understood each other."

"What happened?"

"She died."

"How?"

Merlin hesitates. "A stray sword. It wasn't anyone's fault."

_Did you kill her, Arthur? Was it you?_

"What was her name?"

The afterglow is over. Merlin is cold. He curls protectively around her name. "That's not for you, my lord."

A rustle tells him Arthur has turned his head towards him. "Do you deny me?"

"Someone has to," Merlin whispers, trying for jest. "Wouldn't want you to get complacent."

Arthur snorts. "... Have there been others?"

"Only one."

"Who?"

"A boy. He has given me all my kisses since her."

Arthur exhales, but not in relief; it's just a breath.

"What of you?" Merlin asks. "I've never discovered you with anyone. Was Gwen your only ladylove?"

"No."

Arthur gets up and goes to the wash bowl. Merlin sits up.

"Arthur."

Arthur pours in water from the pitcher and cleans himself, carelessly splashing the floor with water. Merlin follows; he is the stickier of the two and is beginning to feel it. Arthur moves away to give him room, going back to bed.

"It's not fair," Merlin says, shivering as he cups handfuls of cold water and rubs it over his thighs. "How come you get to keep secrets when I don't?" He finishes up, washes his hands and dries off on a towel.

"Come to bed," Arthur says. "We should get some sleep before morning."

Merlin is upset, but the temperature in the room is dropping, and he is tired again. He finds his smallclothes and puts them on before following Arthur into bed.

Arthur meets him there, pulling him close, but Merlin turns over stubbornly and gives Arthur his back.

"I don't care if you've bedded hundreds," he says after a while. "I don't care if you've bedded none. I do care that you won't tell me."

Arthur sighs. "I'm not interested in talking anymore, alright? And what's the point if you don't care anyway? Let's just sleep."

"I'll ask Leon tomorrow. He'll know. Or Gaius. Maybe he's treated you for something nasty," Merlin smiles, feeling sullen and vindictive. "I'll bet there are all kinds of stories people could tell-"

He stops when Arthur takes him firmly by the throat and pulls him back against his body. The grip isn't choking, only controlling, and Merlin squirms, prying at Arthur's hand, but it is mostly for show. He has come to rely on Arthur's manhandling to calm him down, to replace the clamouring demands of destiny, or the burden of his own mistakes. When Arthur holds him down everything becomes simple, peaceful, and safe.

Not that he wants Arthur to know it's working right now.

"Did I hit a nerve?" Merlin taunts.

"No, idiot, you hit the end of my patience." Arthur is very solid and very strong, and Merlin melts a little with that commanding voice in his ear. "Go to sleep now, before I knock you out."

"Sod off!"

Arthur bullies his other arm under and around Merlin's waist, and then pulls Merlin in underneath Arthur's body, tightening his other hand until Merlin actually grows light-headed.

"Settle down," Arthur growls.

And Merlin does, once he is sure he is well and truly stuck. Arthur's grip gentles again, and he sighs, leaning his forehead against Merlin's shoulder.

"Merlin, my Merlin. You don't know ..."

But Merlin does know, because Arthur's actions have always spoken louder than his words, shown his heart where it would not announce itself. "I'm alright," he says. "I'm here with you." He lies still until Arthur has been reassured that Merlin is safe and content.

Then Arthur gets off him and they rearrange themselves into more comfortable positions. Merlin kisses Arthur again, sweet, loving kisses, and then they settle down to sleep. But it takes a long time before either of them drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I lost control of my manhandling-kink.
> 
> I know I have betrayed your expectations yet again; you were waiting for the reverse reveal, and you thought it would come now. Thing is, I intend to get that crossdressing in if it's the last thing I do, and so you will have to wait, but only for a little while longer. All good things and so on. Promise. :)


	32. Truth be told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Taliessa scheme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like you guys have been remiss in your duties. I found several big prose-mistakes in the last chapter that none of you bothered to tell me about. You're my betas, guys, get it together. :P
> 
> Just one more chapter to go and then the fourteenth day will be upon us.

_Once upon a time, in a small village in the countryside, a girlchild was born with extraordinary magical power. Her mother, worried that the other villagers would fear and even hate the little girl, kept her gift a secret, and taught her never to do magic where others could see her. Years passed, and one day, the mother found the girl standing all alone at the edge of the field, looking out towards the distant mountains._

_"What are you looking at, daughter?" asked the mother._

_"There is something out there," answered the child. "It is calling me."_

_The mother understood that her child had a destiny waiting for her far beyond the fields of their little village, and that she would soon have to let her go._

_In time, the child became a young woman, and the day came when she could no longer refuse the call. She packed her meagre belongings in a sack, slung it over her shoulder, said a tearful goodbye to her mother, and set off into the great unknown._

_She walked under trees and over hills, through treacherous mountain passes, and cities greater than anything she had seen before, and wherever she went she kept her magic a secret, though she sometimes used it to earn her bread, or to help the sick or the needy. But nowhere could she settle down, because her destiny called her ever onwards, until one day, she came to a city mightier than any before. It's towers shone white in the sun, bells rang from their heights, and the people in the street were dressed in gay colours._

_The girl followed the familiar call to a square, and there she saw a group of young squires at play, training with the quarterstaff under the watchful eye of a grizzled old knight. The boys laughed and whooped, dancing around each other, drunk on the rush of battle and the joy of being alive. Many young women had gathered to watch the squires train, but our heroine kept herself apart from them, aware that she was a stranger, and that her clothes were travel-worn and her hands dirty._

_As she watched the squires, a feeling grew in her like being filled with sunlight, warm and pulsing, and she realised abruptly that the call had stopped._

_Just then, she caught sight of two knights making their way towards the squires. At first she thought nothing of it, but then she noticed that they did not carry swords, but that one of them had a knife concealed behind his back. Their eyes were intent on the tallest of the squires, a strong boy with fair hair and eyes blue as the sky. She cried out to warn the boy of the danger. The two knights drew their weapons and threw themselves in amongst the squires, most of whom scattered in alarm, but the fair boy spun around and met the threat head on, though armed only with his quarterstaff against their knives._

_In a moment he had felled the first of them, but that left him open to the second, and the girl covered her eyes and whispered a spell without thinking. When her eyes were back to normal, she looked up again, and saw both knights lying in the dust before the boy's feet. While other men came to and secured the prisoners, the boy looked around and spotted the girl who had warned him. He strode towards her, and she felt as if the sun inside her would burn her to cinders, even while her heart froze in fear that he had noticed the magic that saved him._

_"You! You distracted me!" he said. He looked her over. "What is your name, girl?" The condescending tone made her at once less impressed with him, no matter how handsome he was._

_She was almost as tall as he, and could look him straight in the eye. "My mother named me None-of-your-business, boy, but my father called me You're-welcome."_

_The boy threw his head back and laughed delightedly. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”_

_“I know you're acting big enough for the King’s britches.”_

_He leaned in and grinned. “I ought to, since I will wear them one day.”_

_She startled, realizing she was in bigger trouble than she had thought. Then again, she was not in the habit of backing down from a bully, no matter his size. “Even a prince needs help sometimes, and that prince should say thank you when it is given to him.”_

_“Sounds fair. I’ll be sure to give my thanks to the first person that actually helps me.”_

_“I wish I had kept my mouth shut.”_

_“So do I.”_

_Furious, she took a swing at his head, but he caught her wrist, his fingers digging into her pulse point. “Your heart is beating fast. Did you fear for my life? ... Do you find me handsome, girl?”_

_“I find you insufferable," she growled, tearing free of him._

_“Then I won’t keep you,” he said with a mocking bow. “You have an appointment to keep after all.” He gestured for the guards. “Take her to the stocks. For attacking the prince.”_

_The girl spent an hour in the stocks, quietly fuming, but her soul sang that she had found her destiny._

_She tried to leave the city, but could not make herself take the final step out of the city gate, her soul sickening with every step away from the Prince. Evening was falling as she made her way back through the emptying streets. At some point she became aware of a person walking ahead of her. It was a man, wearing a plain but fine blue cloak. A grubby little girl ran up to him and held out her hands._

_“Spare a coin, sir?” she begged._

_The man turned to the child and knelt down, and our heroine gasped as she recognised the Prince. She quickly slid into the shadow of the nearest house._

_“You are Ascha’s daughter, right?" said the Prince. "How is your mother?”_

_“She is sick again, Sir. I need to buy food for my little brother, but I have no money.”_

_From his purse, the Prince pulled two silver coins, which he closed the child’s hand around. “Tell your mother I will send the royal physician to you tomorrow, and in the morning, I want you to come to the castle kitchens; they will find work for you, so you can feed your brother.”_

_The little girl threw her arms around his neck, and he blanched, suddenly awkward. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well …” Gently, he disengaged her, and dried her tears with the edge of his cloak. “Go on now. Run home.”_

_Our heroine went to bed that night with much to think about, and in the morning, she went to the castle steward and asked for work herself._

_As a maid in the royal household she had the opportunity of staying close to the Prince, and to protect him. She soon learned that the incident in the square had been but one of many, for there were plenty who wanted to prevent him from taking the throne. She also learned more about his good heart, how much he cared about his people, and how afraid he was to show weakness in front of them, or his father, the King._

_He caught her once, as she was scrubbing the kitchen floor along with a handful of other maids. A pair of dirty boots stepped into her field of vision, and she looked up to see the Prince looking down at her in surprised amusement._

_"Look what I found. I didn't know you worked for me, girl."_

_"I do, and I would appreciate if you would get your filthy boots out of the kitchen," she said, adding, "Sire," as an afterthought._

_He grinned. "I will, if you tell me your name."_

_The girl wiped her sweaty forehead and sighed. "Fine. It's-"_

"Emrys."

Tom looks up. "Excuse me?"

Lady Mary leans forward. "It's Emrys. Everyone knows it."

Tom frowns. "Everyone but me, it seems. I was going to call her Laudine or Lynette or something like that. Something melodious and feminine."

The young lady rolls her eyes. "It's the story of Emrys. A sorceress of great power? Linked to the Prince? Whose name we also know, by the way."

Tom pretends to be surprised. "Is this true, ladies?" He looks around at the four girls seated in front of the lively fireplace and gets mostly nodding heads.

"We ... we heard it from ... from our maid," Lady Juliana begins shyly, glancing at her sister, Frieda, whose hand she is holding. "Taliessa told the story at the Rising Sun yesterday, and our maid said that Taliessa admitted, or almost admitted, that the Prince in the story was ... well ..."

"Arthur," Mary says smugly. She is perched on the edge of her armchair like she's posing for a painting.

"King Arthur, yes," Juliana agrees, head downcast.

Lord Lionel, seated nearby with two other young men, winks at Tom. "I've heard it too, I'm afraid. I didn't think my squire was a romantic, but he's been talking of nothing but your story for two days. It's been driving me mad. I'll admit though, now that I hear it, it does engage the imagination."

"My lords and ladies you should have told me this," Tom says. "It matters little to me what names the lovers assume, so by all means, I will call them Emrys and Arthur. Though I much prefer Laudine myself, and I like to call the Prince Ywain ... or Tom ... something like that. Oh well, Arthur it is. Now where was I?"

_One day, the Prince, Arthur, was brought home on a stretcher, wounded in a skirmish on the border. Emrys waited for nightfall with something like panic fluttering in her breast. As soon as the city lay in darkness, she entered the Prince’s bedchamber, placing an enchanted sleep on the guards at the door. The Prince was very pale and seemed so small in the big bed. His shoulder was heavily bandaged. Emrys placed her hands on him and spoke a healing spell. Arthur sighed, his breath evening out. Emrys remained with him until just before dawn._

_The next time the Prince was sent out to patrol the countryside, Emrys disguised herself as a young knight and rode out with him, to keep him safe. It gave her another opportunity to get to know the future King. He was a fair and disciplined captain, unmatched in battle, and concerned himself with every one of his subjects, no matter how poor or small._

_As for the Prince, he looked up one day and noticed that among his knights was one boy of unsurpassed beauty. They were riding home, and he waved for the boy to come to his side._

_“You seem familiar to me, and yet I could swear we have not spoken before. I remember seeing you by my side in battle, but I do not know your name.”_

_The knight bowed his head. “I am no one, my lord. Only one of many that follow you with pride.”_

_“Where do you come from?”_

_“A simple village, but this is my home now.”_

_Prince Arthur was intrigued, and demanded the knight ride with him all the way home. He asked endless questions, and the evasive answers only made him more determined to get to know the mysterious boy. However, when the party disbanded at the castle, the young knight disappeared, and the Prince did not see him again until his next quest._

_Slowly, over time, the knight opened up to the hungry Prince, and the two became friends. Arthur found himself falling in love with the boy, and would have liked to have him by his side all the time. But all good times must come to an end. Perhaps days passed, perhaps they were years. Eventually, the old King died._

_On the evening before the coronation, the Prince called the young knight to him. They were alone. Prince Arthur said, “You are perhaps the wisest man I have ever known. You make me see things differently and question everything I believe. You are kind and brave, and you have proven your loyalty to me many times over. I want to grant you a wish. Anything you want. All you have to do is ask, and when I am King I shall make it happen.”_

_Emrys stood frozen. Here was her chance. No more knight by day and maid by night. No more keeping her gift a secret. She could spread her wings, use her magic for good without fearing for her life. She could tell her Prince of her love for him, that he was her destiny. He would grant her freedom, and in return she would give him all the world to rule … But would he grant her request when he discovered she had lied to him? Would he be willing to turn back years of oppressive tradition just for her?_

_Emrys looked at her beloved Prince, and was silent._

_"Have you nothing to ask of me, my friend?" Arthur asked._

_Emrys lowered her eyes. "Only ... only ... My lord, I have a sister. She is a maid in your household. I ask that you make her your personal maidservant."_

_The Prince thought the request unexpected. "It's a little unorthodox perhaps, but I said you could ask for anything. Send her to me tomorrow after the coronation, and I will instruct her in her duties."_

_Emrys bowed. "Thank you, my lord. ... May I ask one more thing?"_

_Arthur smiled. "You may."_

_Emrys closed her eyes, dizzy with fear. "Will you kiss me?"_

_After a while, when the Prince did not reply, Emrys opened her eyes again. The Prince was looking at her curiously. Slowly, he closed the distance between them, cupped Emrys' head in his hands, rose up and pressed a light kiss to his knight's forehead. They looked at each other. Emrys knew she would spend the rest of her life protecting and serving this man, never thanked, never acknowledged, without hope of ever being free of her lies. And she would do it gladly._

_"Thank you," she began, but the Prince stopped her with a soft, lingering kiss on her mouth._

_The next day, Prince Arthur was crowned King, and in the crowd stood Emrys as knight, shouting for Arthur's long life, her heart bursting with love._

Tom looked into the fire, letting silence reign. None of his listeners moved or spoke. In a few seconds he would know if he had gone too far. Taliessa had told it differently in the tavern, but had used this ending when telling the story to the laundry maids and the kitchen girls.

"But ... it can't end there," Frieda says, sounding a little far away.

"It must for today, I'm afraid," Tom replies. "I don't know what happens next. We'll just have to wait and see."

"Is it a true story?" Juliana wonders.

Tom hops down from his chair. "Oh no, my dear, what makes you think that?" Inwardly he is soaking up his triumph. They ate it up.

"How ... how very frustrating," Lord Lionel says. "Well told, Tom, well told."

Even Lady Mary has nothing to say, contemplating her hands in her lap.

Tom bows, accepts the coins they give him, and saunters out into the sunlight, leaving his listeners to their thoughts. Tomorrow is the big day, and by then the whole city will know the story, and believe it too. Hungry for their happy ending, they will be ready to throw their support behind the somewhat controversial lovers. They will feel like heroes themselves for championing the cause of true love over the rigid rules of an unfeeling society, and with a bit of luck and goodwill, the people won't mind discovering that the faithful maidservant was actually a boy all along.

Tom whistles a tune as he heads for the caravans in the field, and dinner, which will hopefully be ready.


	33. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the fourteenth day approaches, Arthur and Merlin are busy making plans, but in her run-down castle stronghold, Morgana is deep in preparations of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the end of part 2, just like chapter 18 was the end of part 1, and as I promised, it will feature the meeting between Emrys and King Arthur. Unfortunately, I have tendonitis in both arms, so I can't write for a while. Soon as I'm healed though. I am really stoked about chapter 34.

The scrying fount is ancient, the runes around the sides faded to the unreadable, but it hums with power when Morgana curls her fingers around its crumbling edge.

"Tell me you got some sleep at least, my lady." Lyona sounds long-suffering. Morgana thinks the woman would be a lot happier if she would just learn to mind her own business.

"I can do it." Morgana grins, almost laughing in her excitement. "I know how to make it work."

Lyona throws her long braid over her shoulder and comes inside from where she had lounged in the doorway. "That's wonderful. How about celebrating with a long nap? Or some breakfast at least."

Morgana shakes her head. She can't think of anything so trivial right now. "I want peace and quiet, nothing else."

Lyona sighs. "I'll be right outside." She makes a move to leave, but looks around and changes her mind, going quickly to the ashy fireplace to stoke the fire. Morgana waits impatiently, tapping her foot while her self-appointed bodyguard brings a taper around and lights the candles in the room. Reminded of the cold, Morgana draws her robes closer about herself. The castle is draughty, the walls ice over in the night, and holes and cracks leech the heat from the fires before they can warm the room. But it will be Spring soon.

She traces the edge of the fount lovingly with a fingertip.

"Where is Aithusa?" she asks as Lyona makes for the door at last.

"In the kitchen, my lady. She at least knows what is good for her." Once more, Lyona hesitates. "Mordred is with her. They seem to recognise something in each other. Kindred spirits, perhaps."

Morgana frowns. "Is he well enough to be up?"

Lyona's lips twitch. "We told him no. He didn't listen. He has a stubborn streak in him."

"Why are you smiling?"

"He reminds me of someone else I now."

Morgana rolls her eyes and waves Lyona away. That is good news about Mordred, though. She should go see him soon. And Aithusa's happiness warms her through in a way that the fire cannot. When she thinks back on those two years in the darkness, on Aithusa's pitiful moans of pain as she grew too large for their narrow prison, on the way the dragon's stomach would rumble uselessly as they waited for their meagre daily meal ... Just touching on the memories makes Morgana want to scream. As soon as the time is right she is going to gut the Sarrum like a fish and hang him from the ramparts by his own entrails. Or better yet, throw him into his own prison pit and leave him to die a slow painful death.

A different, greater purpose beckons her now, though. The scrying fount, one of only three left in Albion, found at last. What a weapon against her enemies this will be. What a Christmas present for her.

It is not yet dawn as Morgana bends over the fount and whispers a command to its blank surface. The water ripples, darkens, then grows bright. Coherent shapes emerge and solidify. Three riders, huddled on their horses, travel down a wide road. By the rising hills that flank them, Morgana guesses they must be on the Western road just outside the city of Camelot.

She leans closer, intent on recognising the riders. What would drive them out into the cold on Christmas Day?

*~*~*

Gwaine draws his cloak closer around himself and holds it shut at the throat to keep the bitter air from searing his skin, but it helps little when the cold rushes down his throat on every inhale to burn him from the inside out. He bends his head, but there is no wind to struggle against; the cold is everywhere, and it has long since sunk through his three layers of clothes.

"What I wouldn't do to be back in my bed," Percival says through chattering teeth. He too is crouched low in the saddle, as if to steal warmth from his horse. He's even wearing sleeves for once.

They ride in single file, three proud knights of Camelot, along the high road in the pre-dawn hour. Snow crunches under the hooves of their horses, and the first birds have begun to sing in the trees, but behind those sounds there is a monstrous silence. The world is lifeless but for them, the lights of Camelot left far behind them, swallowed up by the hills over which the road has wound.

It feels like a dream, the revelations of last night, though it was only hours ago.

Elyan, bringing up the rear, keeps looking back over his shoulder, little good though it does him. He's been restless ever since they left, lingering in the courtyard even as the other two rode out through the gate. He has kept mostly quiet, though, until now.

"What do you think they are doing, Arthur and the others?" he asks. They can't leave the subject behind, not when it also lies ahead of them, and all around them in a world changed from the core out.

"I imagine they're all asleep in their warm beds, the lucky bastards," Gwaine says.

Elyan makes an impatient noise, having asked a different question than the one Gwaine answered, but the true question is too intimate, too prying, to be discussed openly.

Gwaine understands, though: he wonders too.

What Elyan wants to know, and what Gwaine wants to know, is what a betrayed lover does when he must go back to bed, look the traitor in the eye and smile at him with affection. Gwaine is dying to know how that scene had played out, when Arthur opened the door to his own chambers and stepped through. Had Merlin rolled over in bed, sleep-tussled and wondering, squinting to make Arthur out in the dark? Had he held out his arms, expecting Christmas kisses and whispered endearments? Arthur is good at masking his emotions, but can he act? Did he make love while his heart bled rage and grief? And did Merlin see the knowledge in his King's eyes, feel it in the fingertips digging into his hips?

It galls Gwaine that he might not be there to see the resolution of this drama.

On the other hand, if all goes well, a resolution might be far off in the future. Gwaine has never been a praying man, but he feels like praying now, for Merlin's safety, Arthur's sanity, and all of their futures.

Arthur had marched off as if to his doom, and they had watched him go helplessly, chafing against his final orders, their hearts torn on the rightness of their only plan of action.

Then Leon had cleared his throat meaningfully, rounded them up and set them on their way. A few precious hours of sleep later, Gwaine had crawled out of bed, dressed in all the clothes he owned that were not red, stuffed his chainmail in a sack, buckled on his sword and forced himself to put one foot in front of the other until he was on a horse that could do it for him.

And even now he does not know for sure; has he betrayed a friend by obeying another? Or has he betrayed all of Camelot, her people, whom he has sworn to protect? The world has gone mad, friends turned to foes, legends come alive to have snowball fights with you in the courtyard. And it is so, so cold, like winters in Albion have never been.

What if disaster strikes and Gwaine isn't there to help? His heart skips, an acknowledgement of the moment's panicked thought.

As if sensing Gwaine's indecision, Percival looks back at them over his shoulder. "We have to trust Arthur. They'll be alright."

Elyan sighs and nods quickly. "Yeah." He tried a chuckle. "Right now I'd say we're worst off of all."

That's right: their mission. On the miles to come, the cold will be the least of their worries. Gwaine wiggles his toes in his new boots, to wake them up. Slowly, their little caravan makes its way towards the border, and Essetir.

*~*~*

The fount goes dark, and Morgana gasps, head spinning and blood pounding in her temples. The toll is greater than she anticipated. She is forced to sit down for a few minutes, but can't stay away for long. While Sir Gwaine's mission, whatever it is, is interesting, it is not what she wants to see. It takes over an hour before the water grows bright again, but it is worth it. It is just after dawn, and Emrys is coming back to Gaius' chambers, no doubt having stolen from Arthur's bed.

Morgana's heart burns at the sight of him. Goddess knows how she had managed to miss it, the obvious connection, how he managed to stay hidden from her for so long. But no longer. And he will pay dearly for everything he has cost her. She will make him pay.

*~*~*

Merlin opens the door to Gaius’ chambers carefully, sticking his head through first and looking around. The room is airy and bright, and only dust stirs. The body lies under the sheet, unmoved. Gaius must still be asleep. Merlin closes the door carefully behind him and creeps across the room, whispering his hearing-enhancing spell and listening for sounds from the chamber further in. After a moment, he picks out Gaius’ heavy, regular breathing. It occurs to Merlin that Gaius must be more tired these days than he has let on, to sleep in like this. It’s a rare morning that no one is knocking on the physician’s door, so Merlin decides to let Gaius sleep. He goes to the cupboard instead, intent on making breakfast.

By the time Gaius rises, Merlin has buttered bread, fried sausages and cut up a chunk of cheese. He slices two wrinkly winter apples, puts everything on a plate and fetches a cup and the water mug.

“I didn’t expect you back so early,” Gaius says when he comes out. He breathes deeply of the fragrant air and sits eagerly down at the table. “Not that I’m complaining.”

He looks from his own topped plate to the absence of the same on Merlin's side. "Aren't you hungry, Merlin?"

"I had breakfast with Arthur," Merlin says, grinning. "You have no idea what time it is, do you?"

Gaius' eyes widen. "Is it that late?"

Merlin shrugs. "Don't worry; everyone sleeps in on Christmas Day."

"Everyone except you." He picks up the bread and tucks in, but keeps an attentive eye on Merlin.

Merlin's smile fades. "Arthur woke early." And it had been awkward. Breakfast had been a quiet affair, despite Merlin's attempts at conversation. Probably just a hangover on Arthur's part, since Merlin had forgotten to give him the potion from Gaius, but Merlin felt disappointed anyway; he had thought, after last night ... he had thought things would be ... different.

He had helped Arthur dress and then pretended that Gaius had asked him to come back early, just to escape.

"Merlin?"

"It's nothing. We should probably make some plans."

“Indeed. You realise you will have to disappear somehow,” Gaius says.

Merlin steals a sausage from the plate and looks at his mentor expectantly. "Disappear?"

Gaius leans in and lowers his voice, even though no one else is around. “You can hardly be in two places at once, Merlin. We need a reason for you to be absent for Emrys' visit, and it had better be a good one, or someone will get suspicious.”

Merlin has been caught up with more practical problems, like where he is supposed to get a dress from, and hasn’t actually considered this issue before. What could be urgent enough to feasibly call him away even from an event as important as Emrys’ visit?

Luckily, the answer comes quickly. “I’ll visit mum. We’ll say she is ill, that she needs me. Arthur would never refuse me.”

Gaius nods slowly. “We could even forge a letter, in case Arthur takes an interest.”

"I can hide in the unoccupied room, practice the gender spell."

"Yes," Gaius says, but his mien is doubtful.

"Something wrong?"

"Oi!" Gaius slaps Merlin's hand away as it steals out to snag another sausage. The old man glares, while Merlin pouts. "Nothing wrong, just a bit of an obstacle. The potion for the spell requires some very rare ingredients, and I have no way to restock when I can't travel. If all goes well, you will be wearing the disguise quite often in the future; we must conserve our supply."

Merlin bites his lip anxiously. "But I need practice; last time I changed I couldn't use magic. What if something happens?"

"Of course, of course, I'm just saying we need to prioritise. For now the most important thing is to get through the reception, and for that you have plenty to worry about other than your magic."

Merlin thinks hard. "Like what?"

"Like your two left feet. You realise you'll be expected to dance."

Merlin squawks.

*~*~*

The image blurs, and it takes Morgana a moment to realise it is her own eyes that are betraying her. She tries to keep watching but has to give up when she begins to nod off where she stands. Resolved to sleep only for an hour or so, she goes to bed. When she wakes up, there is food on the table. She has overslept. She eats absentmindedly while trying to make the fount come back to life. It obeys just in time to show her a host of druids pouring out of the forest outside Camelot, like a black wave over the white beach of the valley. They set up camp before the gates, while three druid elders make their way through the city towards the castle. It is after midday, and already dark.

*~*~*

The scouts deliver the news only hours before they arrive, and by dark, their campfires are as numerous as an army's. Camelot grows wary, quiet and watchful, but nothing happens, except that an envoy of three come to request an audience with the King.

Arthur receives them in the small council chamber, surrounded by curious courtiers and council members. Merlin stands attentively off to the side, having replaced George for the evening, and his heart beats hard in his throat and wrists, setting him on edge in a way that is difficult to hide. Luckily, no one is paying attention to him. Into the chamber strides two men and a woman in thick winter robes, their snow-dusted hoods thrown back.

Arthur greets them formally, before extending a friendly hand to Iseldir, the foremost of them. They know each other from back when the law was changed to give druids in Camelot equal rights, as Iseldir had been invited to be the ambassador of his people on the occasion.

“It’s been a long time since we last saw you,” Arthur says.

Iseldir merely inclines his head with a mysterious little smile. He sweeps out a hand and introduces his two companions. "King Arthur, this is Rhiannon, who has come from the Southern coast with her people, and Aigan of Essetir, one of our most distinguished elders."

The woman, Rhiannon, is short and stout with strawberry blonde hair in a long braid. Aigan is wizened but looks tough as leather, with a narrow face and sharp eyes.

“Welcome to Camelot,” Arthur repeats, bowing to them. Rhiannon bows back, smiling warmly, but Aigan barely inclines his head. Arthur offers them seats and calls for warm wine. He also sends a maid to find Sir Leon. When he finally sits down, there is no preamble. “I understand that a gathering as large as this is uncommon for your people, so I assume you have come because of Emrys."

Merlin shudders. So far, none of the druids have cast so much as a glance his way, but can he trust that they know enough about the circumstances not to reveal him?

Iseldir begins to make an answer, but Aigan interrupts him.“In the past our people were numerous, our settlements larger, but we have learned not to make such easy targets of ourselves. These days we split the tribe when we become too many to stay hidden.” His voice has a hard edge to it, and the insolence of old age addressing youth.

Iseldir's face is a mask of calm, but he cuts in quickly. “We have come because of the historic event about to take place in these halls, my lord; one that, whatever the outcome, will shape our lives for years to come. We wanted to be part of it.”

“Of course,” Arthur says, a brief tightness around the mouth the only indicator that he even heard Aigan. “There will be a feast held to welcome Emrys when she arrives. You are most welcome to attend.”

Merlin sees Iseldir blink slowly, and Rhiannon's brows lower minutely, but there is no other reaction to Emrys' reversed gender.

Rhiannon soon brings up more practical matters, asking after the possibility for her people to hunt in the surrounding area, trade with the city, and make other arrangements for their comfortable stay. There are several hundred men, women and children waiting in the snow beyond the city wall, with only reinforced tents and campfires against the elements.

The courtiers soon grow bored with these more mundane proceedings, no doubt having hoped for more from the magical, mystical druids, and begin to trickle out of the room. Leon arrives, and others are sent for to help arrange the various necessities agreed upon. Meanwhile, Merlin has had enough time to calm his fears of being exposed, and to become impatient instead. It is hard to hear them speak of him as if he were not even here. Spurred by a dangerous whim, he intercepts the wine when it comes, and goes around the table to pour for the visitors.

“Thank you, dear,” Rhiannon says, voice deep and kind.

Iseldir is busy listening to Sir Leon and does not react, but Aigan glances up at him, does a double take and gives him a hard stare, rather too obviously, to the point where Merlin’s innate clumsiness kicks in and he ends up tripping on a chair leg and spilling the hot wine all over the table.

There's a scrape of chairs as everyone jumps up to avoid the torrent.

Arthur shakes his wet sleeves and grits his teeth. "Everyone, this is Merlin, he was dropped on his head as a child but is mostly harmless."

“Uh, sorry,” Merlin says, putting the flagon down and pulling his neckerchief off to wipe at the stain on Arthur’s jacket. Arthur intercepts him, grabbing his wrist and pushing him away.

“Don’t bother. Go somewhere else. Go pack; you'll want an early start tomorrow.” His voice is cold. He didn't seem that bothered when Merlin asked to be allowed to go see his mother earlier, so why ...

Merlin gets a proper look at the King's face and realises that Arthur is angry, and that he was hiding it effectively until Merlin set him off. It has to be Aigan’s words earlier, of course they got to him; Arthur has himself led raids on druid settlements, has brought druids to the fire in his father's name. It must sting deeply to be confronted with these things.

How Merlin understands him; at least a decade of continued persecution is on Merlin’s head, for not having fulfilled his destiny sooner.

He reaches out. “Sire-”

Arthur takes an abrupt, violent step towards him, making Merlin flinch backwards.

“Just go, Merlin! I don't want to see your stupid face for the rest of the evening.” He turns his back.

Merlin is stunned. Complete silence grips the room, everyone's eyes turned on the King and his manservant. Merlin glances at the druids, hoping Arthur's outburst hasn't damaged their impression of him. They look curious, a little surprised. There's nothing Merlin can do right now. He gathers himself and gives Arthur's back a quick bow.

“Good luck, Sire.”

A muscle in Arthur’s jaw tightens.

Merlin has not gone far down the corridor before he hears Iseldir’s mild voice in his head.

_“The King has excused himself and asked us to return tomorrow. It seems much has happened since last I was here. I would like to speak with you.”_

_"Tomorrow,"_ Merlin answers.

Gaius takes the news with an eagerness that Merlin cannot match. “This is splendid, Merlin. Better than we could have hoped for,” he whispers as they bend over their book, pretending to consult the text, on the narrow landing above the sick room.

“How's that?” Merlin asks, keeping half an eye on the nurse and her patient below.

“Hiding in the castle for days was never a very good plan, you know. Can you imagine me sneaking away to smuggle food to you several times a day? No, this is a much better idea.”

The old man has formed a habit of speaking as if Merlin is supposed to be reading his mind. Merlin looks at him blankly.

Gaius’ eyebrows are not impressed with him. “You'll ride out tomorrow as planned, then take off from Western road back into the forest until you reach the druid camp. You can stay with them. When the time comes, you can ride into the city from outside. It makes everything much easier for us.”

"Yeah," Merlin says, feeling an intense dislike of the idea welling up in him. "That's a good plan."

*~*~*

Morgana breathes in and out carefully, struggling against laughter as a plan comes together in her mind. This is surely the luck of the Goddess. Emrys will be all alone in the druid camp, and there ... Oh the sweet irony, how fitting it will be. The perfect revenge.

She allows herself another quick nap, mostly out of necessity, before striding down through the lower levels of the castle. She stops in the kitchen to say hello to Aithusa, who has curled up in a warm corner and is all but purring.

"What's got you smiling so, my lady?" the cook asks.

"The prospect of moving into a castle with a proper roof," she answers.

She goes deep into the castle. The ruins stand on the top of a hill, and there are passageways winding down into the earth. In a room there, Morgana keeps her potion craft. She closes the door carefully behind her and lets her eyes roam over the walls hung with dried lavender, mistletoe, monkshood and nightshade. Bottles line shelves, along with the few books she has managed to gather. She pulls her sleeves up, sets the hearth ablaze without a word, and begins to pull down the ingredients she will need.

A few hours later she is in the rookery, scribbling a note to go with the little bottle bearing the fruits of her labours.

Lyona finds her there. "I didn't sign up to be your nursemaid," Lyona says. She watches warily as Morgana calls a raven down from the perches high above.

"Then stop acting like one," Morgana returns calmly. She puts the bottle and note in a small pouch, ties it to the raven's leg, and tells it where to go in words that it will understand.

She and Lyona watch it fly off into the icy night, with death tied to its leg.

In the evening, the fount shows Morgana Arthur donning a concealing cloak and stealing through the castle, heading down to the tavern.

*~*~*

Merlin searches all over the castle, until he gets a tip from a guard who saw Arthur heading out earlier, in the direction of the town.

Arthur does not often go to the tavern, especially not alone, and yet The Rising Sun is where Merlin finds him. He is at the dice table, which is also rare.

"Merlin!" Arthur shouts when he sees him. His cheeks are red. "Come on, Merlin, come beat me at dice, like you did before we went to Ismere." There is something oblivious in his smile; it doesn't reach his eyes.

The patrons are cheering; apparently Arthur has been playing for some time.

"Are you drunk?" Merlin asks, even though he clearly is. It's just so strange.

"Yes ..." Arthur hesitates, eyes narrowing, mouth shaping and reshaping until "Merlin" comes out like an accusation. "I am. What of it?"

Merlin isn't sure whether to laugh or not. "I'd better get you back to the castle. It's time for bed, Your Highness."

Arthur turns away, back to the dice table. He bends his head over it and his body is one curving, unbroken line from crown to sole, broad back and narrow hips and legs like young trunks, making Merlin wish the way to bed wasn't quite so long.

But Arthur's words are not playful. "Is it that time already?" he says, oddly quietly. He slams the dice cup down on the table and staggers theatrically. "Sorry, lads," he shouts to the crowd. "My maid is here to tuck me in. I'd better go."

There's a chorus of disappointed "aww"s. Merlin shrugs apologetically and drags Arthur's arm over his shoulder.

Arthur's other hand strikes towards him like a viper, but all it does is clench in the front of his jacket. For a moment, Arthur's weight drags them to the side, before Merlin can pitch them forward and start the march towards the door. Arthur's head hangs limply.

Once they are outside in the howling wind, Arthur's fingers fan out over Merlin's breast. "Your heart is beating fast," he says.

"You scared me," Merlin explains. He tries to move forward, but Arthur holds them back.

He stands, taking his weight off Merlin and withdrawing his hands. Without a word he begins to walk towards the castle, only weaving a little in the gusts. Merlin hurries after him, keeping within reach in case Arthur should stumble.

Arthur stops at the statue of Prince Aurelius, looking up at the mounted knight.

"Arthur?"

Merlin's ears are prickling painfully, and his toes are none too happy either. Arthur turns to him slowly, looks at him. He looks sad.

"Let's get inside yeah?" Merlin says, nodding his head towards the steps.

Arthur climbs the steps with his head bowed.

Once in the royal chambers, Merlin busies himself building a fire. Only once it is crackling merrily does he turn to Arthur, who is standing at the window.

"That will do, Merlin. I don't need you tonight."

That's when Merlin knows Arthur is truly unhappy. So he ignores the dismissal and goes to turn down the bed. There's not much else that needs doing because George apparently has no life beyond his job.

"Did you hear me, Merlin?" Arthur asks. "I said I want you to go."

Merlin stiffens. Oh that hurt.

Arthur must have noticed, because he amends himself somewhat. "You'll need an early start tomorrow, and I'm just going to pass out anyway."

"No, you'll stay up all night brooding," Merlin says pleasantly. "Just because one grumpy old druid won't let go of the past."

Arthur looks at him strangely. "You mean Aigan?"

"No need to pretend," Merlin says, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders and steering him over to the bed, where he makes him sit. "I know he got to you. It's alright. We've all done things we regret. What's important now is the future, Arthur."

Arthur looks up at him with shadowed eyes. "Aigan lost his wife in the Purge. Iseldir told me. She was one of the first to die. She was pregnant."

Merlin closes his eyes for a moment, Uther's face looming up before him, fanatical, determined. "It's over now. You will make it right."

"Will I?" Arthur whispers, but he doesn't wait around for Merlin to answer, bending down to pull off his own boots. "Can we just sleep?"

"Yeah."

They climb into bed and lie down separately, the inches between them seeming much wider than they should be. Eventually Arthur turns over on his side, away from Merlin, with assumed casualty. It stings under Merlin's skin, but he refuses to let Arthur get away with it. He shifts closer and throws an arm over Arthur's waist, holding him.

"Things will look brighter in the morning, you'll see."

"Give my love to Hunith when you see her."

Merlin's lips twist at the unintended blow, so he can't reply at once. He rubs his nose in the soft cotton of Arthur's nightshirt, tracing his shoulder blades. "Of course."

*~*~*

Mordred still tires easily, and spends most of his time in bed. He took part in the Christmas celebrations, but it seems to have cost him. His skin looks pale against the dark furs.

Morgana stands for a while in the doorway and watches him. He eventually turns his head and looks back at her. There is wisdom in his eyes, and yet she knows he is young and naive, hopeful even now of his own redemption.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, going to sit at his bedside.

"Fine," he says, and his voice is strong.

Morgana reaches out and feels his forehead. "Your fever is almost gone. You should make a full recovery."

He turns his face away, brows lowering. "Yes. It's a miracle."

"It is, Mordred. It is a miracle. You should have died."

He looks surprised.

Morgana folds her hands in her lap. "When you came here, your wounds were already healing. We might still have lost you without Aithusa's help, but Mordred, you should not have woken at all; your injuries were grave."

He begins to understand where she is going, and shifts restlessly, unhappily, under the furs. "I won't do it. I don't care what Merlin has seen. I'm not a murderer."

"You are an instrument of the gods, Mordred," Morgana says gently. She doesn't need to be frustrated with him, because she knows in the end he will do what he is destined to do. "Whether you like it or not."

Mordred struggles to sit up, growing agitated. "I have no reason to kill Arthur! He's a good man! He cares about me!"

"Then why are you here?" Morgana asks sternly.

Mordred's face falls into sullen silence.

Morgana sighs. "The good thing about Arthur is that sooner or later he will give you a reason to hate him. He's obliging like that. And what more do you really need than that he is Uther's son, and the current ruler of the regime that has oppressed us and our kind for decades? He has not changed any-"

"But he will! He has! The druids have been given-"

"Equal rights." Morgana feels her lips curl into an unkind smile. "Perhaps that is what the law says, but it is not practiced anywhere. The common people still shun and hate us, and as for magic ..."

Mordred stares stubbornly at his drawn up knees. "He gives them a fair trial."

"It's been years. He will never lift the ban. I know that many of you are counting on Emrys to make it happen, but look how that's turned out. Emrys is not our ally." She leans in and places a hand on Mordred's arm. "Even if Arthur was willing to take you back, if you could pledge to him never to use your magic, even if you were happy living such a stunted life at his court, do you think Emrys would allow you to return? He stood passively by while you were dying, but you defied him by living, against the odds. Do you think he would simply stand by this time?"

Mordred shakes his head, pulls away from her touch. "I will not kill Arthur. There must be another way to achieve peace."

"Perhaps. But that is not what destiny has decided for you."

"Destiny can change!" Mordred says, his eyes burning into hers. "You told me you saw Lady Guinevere made queen of Camelot, but she rejected Arthur. The Sight failed you!"

Morgana meets his anger calmly. "We won't know that for certain until Guinevere is dead. For now, Emrys is more important. He is Arthur's strength, and his treatment of you should tell you just how blinded he is."

Mordred sinks back against the pillows, eyelids heavy over dull eyes. He idolised Emrys, she knows, and the truth has been a blow to him. "What do you plan to do?"

"I have already done it." Triumph churns in her stomach. She sees Mordred's eyes widen a little. "Don't worry. His death will be swift. It won't take a minute." Poor sweet Mordred, pure of soul, empathetic to all, even his own greatest enemy. Morgana wishes he didn't have to play any part in this, even as she loves him for being the chosen instrument of her victory.

"What has the fount showed you?" he asks, changing the subject somewhat.

Morgana's mouth twists. "It's being ... difficult. I fear it's broken."

"Broken? Lyona said you'd had success with it."

Morgana puts her chin in her hand, feeling put out. "For a while. But it won't show me what I want it to. Emrys left the castle this morning, and I followed him, but then the scene changed, and I got to witness a thrilling conversation between two servants about where Arthur would take his breakfast." She shares a wry look with Mordred. "Seems Arthur is so furious about Aigan's critique of Uther that he won't even see them today. He's in his room. Sulking."

"Aigan?" Mordred wonders.

Morgana gives him a brief account of yesterdays visions. In the end she sighs. "If only I had had someone to teach me how to command the fount. Someone like Nimueh or Morgause, my sister. They knew all the secrets." She sits up, a silent snarl twisting her lips. "But they are dead ... thanks to Emrys. They were fighting Uther's tyranny, and instead of helping them, his own kin and kind, he sent them to their deaths. I'm the only one left."

She startles when Mordred's hand covers her own.

"You're not alone," he says, and his face is sweet. "You saved me when I was a child, you forgave me my betrayal in Ismere, you've taken me in. I am yours now, my lady. You need not be alone anymore."

Morgana smiles, biting her bottom lip and feeling overcome with emotion. "Thank you." She rises and kisses Mordred's forehead. "I'm going to go try again. I'll see you for supper?"

Mordred nods, before snuggling down and getting ready to drop off again. Morgana shuts the door quietly behind her.

The fount still won't show her the druid camp, but at least it isn't interested in random servants anymore. Arthur and Gwen are arguing. They've just started, with Arthur being cold and petulant and Gwen as close to full on shouting as Morgana has ever seen her.

"How is it going to go when he comes back?" Gwen is saying. "You need to bury this! For now! For us!" Arthur keeps his back to her, riling her up. "It was your bloody idea!" she shouts. "You think you're the only one in pain?"

Arthur rounds on her with thunder on his brow, but just then there is a knock on Morgana's door. She goes quickly to answer, not really wanting to miss her brother being scolded like a petulant child.

Outside is a messenger come to inform her that she has news from Essetir. For a moment she is torn, but she really wants to hear this right away, and besides, she is unlikely to learn anything new from Arthur and Gwen. Probably their tiff is about Arthur's refusal to deal with the druids, or some lovers' spat. Gwen cannot be happy that insignificant little Merlin has taken her place in Arthur's bed.

Morgana follows the messenger to the great hall. The news is more than mere words. Three druids stand before the fire, warming their hands. They still wear their winter cloaks and weapons: bows and quivers slung on their backs and knives hung in their belts. They turn as Morgana enters. Two are men, one tough and scarred, the other handsome, and between them stands a young woman with long curling hair, sharp eyes and a high forehead.

Morgana extends her hands. "Kara. I'm glad you've arrived safely."

The girl meets her half-way, smiling. "The road was quiet. Even the wolves have fled these parts."

"The winter is coldest just before the thaw," Morgana says, adapting another old saying. "And the thaw is coming."

Kara grins. "Yes it is. We bring good news: you will have your army."

Morgana breathes deeply, luxuriating in the feeling of being underway at last. "We'll talk about it over supper. There is someone here I know you'll be glad to see."

And Kara, with her deep conviction, will make Mordred understand at last. Morgana knows it.

On the morning of Emrys' reception in Camelot, Morgana receives a reply to her raven. The message is short.

_There were three bottles. Managed to swap the contents of one. Almost caught. No second chance._

Only one out of three. It doesn't matter. Judging from Gaius' words, each drop will eventually be drunk. Let Merlin play games with fate for a little while. All Morgana has to do is wait. Tonight will change everything, in ways that neither Arthur nor poor Merlin will see coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope its clear that while the fount-scenes are presented from various POVs with thoughts and all, Morgana only sees what goes on from the outside, and thereby missses a lot of what is actually going on.
> 
> Til next time, enjoy the beginning of summer.


End file.
